


The Gifts in Small Packages

by December



Category: Lord of the Rings (2001 2002 2003), Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-04-09
Updated: 2017-08-09
Packaged: 2017-10-17 20:15:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 27,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/180787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/December/pseuds/December
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pippin will never speak of it. And then he does.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I own none of this, only enjoy it.

At first, he had not known why he has returned. Or, to be more accurate, he prefers to think that he had not: it feels less silly this way. Although indeed he had never imagined it would go this far.

He had only felt a strange discomfort, a vague sensation of something lacking – like his stomach being empty, only he could not quite place the feeling. He had so yearned to finally come home after a whole year of absence, to see the beloved green hills and meadows, and familiar Hobbit-faces – to be back where he belonged. Only he did not belong there any longer.

It took him nearly a year to realise the restlessness and longing would not go away. He was not accustomed to having to figure himself out, and initially he had blamed it all on the state they had found the Shire in, had thought his heart ached for their defiled land. Time passed, and reparations were quickly made by many a dedicated pair of hard-working Hobbit hands, and the signs of the gone war were soon outshadowed by the fresh and crispy signs of a new – and safer – life. But Pippin’s dissatisfaction only gathered strength, and when one day in the first spring after the War he caught himself growing languid and morose at the sight of a young cherry tree in bloom, he knew something was wrong.

Then followed the endless inward monologues where he reprimanded himself for being weak, and selfish, and hard to please, for having unreasonable expectations from life. He had already had his Big Adventure, now was the time to settle down and enjoy the normal existence of a young and healthy hobbit that he was. And he had earnestly tried to do just that, to enjoy it – but no amount of supposedly satisfying physical work he piled upon himself and no amount of the cheeriest entertainments he tried to drown himself in proved to fill the odd void in his chest.

None of the things that had once brought him contentment and happiness held any meaning. It was wrong, it was simply _all wrong_. Everything had as though become shallow, devoid of substance, lacking a dimension…

Whatever Gandalf may have called him, he was no fool. He looked at Sam, bursting with affection and pride for his new family, for his new wife who consisted as though solely of smiles, dimples and cosyness; he saw Sam overflow with energy, so busy getting everything ready for when the little ones would start arriving – one could light a splinter off him. And he looked at Frodo, who seemed to be getting more and more lost in his own world, turning more and more towards the past and some strange lacuna of time between yesterday and forever; he saw Frodo’s increasing propensity for solitude, saw his seemingly unmotivated sadness. He was no fool, so he made comparisons – and conclusions.

Solitude is not healthy for a fellow.

Sam was always working blisters on his feet doing things for someone, and look how robust and happy Sam was, how firmly rooted, how content. Whereas solitude provided too much time to dwell on one’s own… On one’s own what? Problems? But he did not have any problems. Fears? But what was there for him to fear, now of all times? On one’s own – _dreams…_?

Not that this made too much sense either, although…

What he knew for certain was that when Peregrin Took is left overlong one on one with his own self, he is bound to eventually go and get this self involved in some highly imprudent typically Tookish endeavour. Just as it had later gone to show.

Slowly the decision ripened in him, and was made long before he knew it. When finally he acknowledged it, immense relief poured over him, and he felt clean and light, as though filled with air, with a cool fresh wind.

Maybe his Adventure was not over just yet.


	2. Chapter 2

He is coming unannounced, and as he approaches the City on his pony – the renewed City of the Sun – and it looms ahead in its might and majesty, he is beginning to worry, to doubt.

His concerns are swiftly dispelled when finally he enters the new gate and begins his ascend up the spiralling main street. Everyone is so happy to see him, everyone has questions, and he is stopped so many times he wonders if he will make it to the seventh circle before midnight. Not that he truly minds, only he would really like to see –

But the news of his arrival must have travelled faster than he himself, for suddenly Aragorn – no, the King of the Reunited Kingdom – is by his side, surprised but laughing, urging him along, ruffling his hair and voicing assumptions that Pippin must be looking forward to wolfing down half the dining table that is just being set up in the Hall of Feasts. No, to him, it is Aragorn after all. The Man’s presence and gladness are reassuring, but when he asks why Pippin had sent no word and why the others have not come for a visit too, he only shrugs vaguely and smiles. He cannot quite bring himself to say that, actually, he has not come for a visit – he has come to stay.

And so when Aragorn goes on, saying a message should be sent at once to Emyn Arnen to notify the Steward and his wife, Pippin does not tell him there is no need to hurry, that he is not going anywhere. He only grows quiet, suddenly realising just how tired from his travels he really is, and the prospect of the long hearty meal ahead of them does not look so magical anymore.

Somehow he had assumed Faramir would be there when he comes…

It is almost as though the moment is ruined, and for a second he feels small, and laughable, and out of place – and wants to tell Aragorn it is all a mistake, that he really should be turning around and going home.

But instead he only takes a slow breath and calls on his hobbit practicality. No one knew he was coming, so somebody not being there to meet him does not in any way go to say he is unwanted – not to mention that important people like Faramir and Aragorn have more pressing matters on their agenda than throwing welcome parades for the folk like himself. Besides, he tells himself – and at this thought actually begins to smile – he is creased and smelly from the road, even the hair on his feet so dusted it looks grey instead of brown. To put it shortly, he is not at his best, not particularly presentable. Aragorn had seen him in states worse than this, Aragorn had spent the better part of his own life being creased and dusty, with _Aragorn_ it is perfectly all right, but… Somehow at this point he fails to remember Faramir had done quite a bit of rangering too. No, for Faramir he wants to look good, starched and shiny, and decked out appropriately. Indeed, it is better the reunion wait a little more.

Nevertheless the evening finds him struggling to maintain the cheer expected of one like him, and soon his tongue wearies of talking and his lips of smiling. The numerous delights generously set before him have an untypical effect, too. It all feels overdone, too festive, too lavish. As one versed in the arts of both cooking and eating he can certainly appreciate all the work and thought put into the dishes, some artfully complex, others elegantly simple – not to mention the fact over here in Gondor they somehow manage to serve so many things that it is clearly not the season for. Were there just one more man present at the long table, Pippin would have surely savoured the juicy honey-glazed chicken stuffed with green grapes and sprigs of thyme, the roasted game with a refreshingly sour gravy of wild berries, the salt-sprinkled rye-bread toasts slippery with the headily fragrant sunflower-seed oil, the goose-liver parfait served with liquor-soaked prunes; the creamy pumpkin soup with slices of fried lard, the liberally peppered tomato soup with basil, the fresh and zesty sorrel soup; the delicacies from down South: the cured roe, buttery olives and nectar-laden velvety peaches; the countless varieties of cheeses from all over Gondor, accompanied by marmalades, figs, grapes and thin bread crisps, the desserts, the drinks… On a normal day such an abundant selection would have him recklessly testing the capacity of his belly – but tonight, he realises, he would by far have preferred a plate of plain vegetable broth, perfectly lean and without a single circle of fat floating on the surface, and a slice of unassuming white bread.

When the evening grows old and the tables are cleared, it seems to him Aragorn is in the mood for taking out their pipes and enjoying some idle conversation well into the night. Indeed, as their company dwindles, the men of court and guests bidding their lord good night and departing one by one, the Lady Arwen giving her husband a quiet nod with a shadow of a smile and leaving too, followed by her maidens, the King leisurely leans back in his chair, stretches out his long legs, and regards Pippin with a smile. But the hobbit’s disposition must not be as unnoticeable as he would like to think, for the man grins thoughtfully and kindly suggests they call it a day and Pippin be shown to the room prepared for him, and they can continue tomorrow – especially seeing as Faramir will be there, and no doubt Pippin will have to repeat for him everything he might now tell Aragorn.

The place, snug and homey by a Man’s standards, to him feels like a loose oversized shirt, and, staring wary-eyed into the darkness, Pippin wraps the blankets tighter around himself. The bed is too big, the pillow is too big, the quilt is broad enough for three hobbits to fit comfortably under. This is nothing new, really, for ever since he entered the lands of the Big People on his journey, everything was as though fashioned with the purpose of reminding him he was trying to bite off more than he could swallow. But only here, in Minas Anor, does it truly begin to bother him – somehow it feels that at his final destination, where he wants to settle for good as one who has found his one and only rightful place, things should fit and welcome him.

Here he is, come to find a remedy for the burdensome solitude, alone and without a plan. What could have been a more obvious solution than to marry and start a family, like everyone else – back in the Shire, where he saw half a dozen prospective matches any time he chanced to glance out the window? But no, he does not regret his decision, for, in fact, neither of the other passes beckon to him in the slightest, even now, amid his current uncertainty.

Quietly, as though not wishing to admit his fears even to himself, he climbs out of bed and comes to the window, standing on tip-toe to better see the night city below. It is late, but there are many a homely orange light in the windows, each a promise of togetherness and care, of safety and kinship. Further down, across the Pelennor, there twinkle, although placed less densely, tiny warm specks as well – and over the Great River, for his room faces East, he thinks that amid the inky blackness of the night hills and groves he can make out a collection of glowing dots. He watches for a long while, unaware of gently chewing on his lip, and the sight brings quiet, soothing reassurance.


	3. Chapter 3

“Well, where is he then?” a strong clear voice calls merrily across the crowded hall – and Pippin’s insides do a complex acrobatic stunt, something between a somersault and tying themselves into a knot.

He is so nervous he is seriously afraid he might be sick, all over his neat festive attire.

It feels so _good_ just to see him that Pippin goes breathless, beaming, he is sure, quite like the bucolic simpleton he is. But no one is given much time to observe his excessive reaction, for Faramir bows to embrace him, and the Hobbit’s burning face is hidden from everyone, including the Steward himself. His cheek pressed to the Man’s strong shoulder, Pippin wonders if Faramir has lifted him off the ground, for he can no longer feel the floor beneath his feet. He can, in fact, no longer feel any part of himself – he feels only Faramir, how big he is, and powerful, and lithe, and warm. He dares embrace back, desperately grappling for every feel of the other, for the subtle movement of the smooth hard muscles in Faramir’s back beneath his palms, for the masculine scent in the crease of Faramir’s neck so close to his nose – and lips; for the firmness of Faramir’s hold on his frame, one hand on his upper arm, the other on his side, barely an inch above his waist… He even catches the steady beat of the Man’s heart, although seemingly the pounding of his own should have muted out all other sounds.

It lasts but a little, no longer than such a hug should last – and then Faramir pulls back to look into his face and say all those things people say on such occasions, how he is so this-and-that to see Pippin, and how Pippin is so this-and-that, and how this-and-that of Pippin to not have informed anyone ahead of time, and so on. Pippin is assuming according expressions, and nodding, and laughing, and even giving appropriate replies – but the only thought in his head is, he is not going to do it again, that’s it, I only get to be held by him once.

It is then that he should have, cutting off any further inner discussion, understood why he has come back.

But no, he only looks into Faramir’s smiling eyes, these clever grey eyes, and asks, “Would you take me?”

Still grinning broadly, Faramir cocks his head to the side and curves his brow, showing he is not following.

“I…” Pippin swallows. “I’m meaning to stay for… for a while, you know, and… So… I’m thinking, would you take me on to serve for you…? I thought, for a lord such as yourself, there’s always room for… I, well…” he trails off, painfully embarrassed. He feels so very foolish, thinking how strange this suggestion must seem to Faramir. He reckons he ought to explain himself, why he wants to do this, and why Faramir should be interested. But there really is not much to say, except that he had briefly served for the previous Steward – not something that would be very tactful to bring up given how that service had ended. He fears Faramir will mistake his desire for courtesy and tell him there is no need for him to earn his feed, that Pippin can stay as guest indefinitely – and how will he argue with that?

But Faramir spares him the awkwardness. “If this is your wish, I would gladly have you,” he says.

And so it is sealed.

The great happiness of a small heart, unnoticed by anyone, comes into being.

This deal is a package, however. Later that evening, when Pippin leaves the packed hall to come out into the twilit garden for a breath, Faramir finds him. In these more private settings the Steward asks the question that has apparently been on the Man’s mind since his earlier talk with the hobbit.

He is careful and says he does not mean to pry – but is something wrong at home? He has not changed his mind, no, not at all, he will gladly take Pippin into service, he only wishes to know if perhaps he can help somehow if something is troubling Pippin. It is all right, he is not just asking out of politeness, Pippin can really tell him.

Only then does Pippin realise his earlier request, coming so suddenly, was bound to evoke worry in a man like Faramir, modest and ever sensitive to others’ sentiments. Of course Faramir thought something might be wrong, thought Pippin has perhaps left the Shire out of necessity rather than by will. This is not too far from the truth, in fact, and it frightens Pippin to think how easily his new master can read him.

He decides to be as honest as he can afford to, and does not put on a bright face, does not object that everything is fine, just fine. Instead he shrugs thoughtfully.

“I don’t know,” he says frankly. “Everything seems to be going well, but somehow it just doesn’t... Everyone else is so happy, but I… I don’t know,” he says again. “It doesn’t feel quite as before, if you know what I mean.” He is blushing and looks up at Faramir warily.

Faramir’s brow is furrowed, but as soon as he catches Pippin’s gaze, he smiles. “I think I might,” he says softly.

“And I missed… Minas Tirith… and everybody,” Pippin adds quietly, daring to be a little more honest still.

“Is that so?” Faramir is smiling broader now, his concerns clearly appeased.

“Yes,” Pippin confirms quickly. “But now that I am here, I am very happy. You need not worry for me… my lord.” The last bit he says tentatively, trying out this new form of address he will use as Faramir’s servant.

Faramir is amused, and laughs warmly.

“Very well, Master Peregrin, I shan’t,” he replies in like manner, giving a short official nod as indeed he would talking to a servant. But then he suddenly reaches and gently ruffles Pippin’s curly hair. “But if something should come up, you be sure to tell me, all right? Don’t forget, lord or not, I am still a friend.”

Yes, Pippin is very happy – but very guilty too, for having made Faramir worry needlessly – fundamentally, for not being truthful with Faramir.

In time he will learn this is going to be his predominant state – this savoury mixture of bliss and guilt. For he will never be able to be fully honest with his new lord.


	4. Chapter 4

Step by step Pippin gains unrivalled dominion over this private little realm.

Faramir has no shortage of staff – and no actual need of this many hands to do the help, at least in Pippin’s unspoken opinion. If the Hobbit were to be consulted, he would have stated with full conviction that, with all due respect to the immense importance of the Steward’s esteemed person, _one_ servant-assistant-esquire would be just about enough...

Only the chore of laundry still has to be outsourced, and solely the washing itself at that – Pippin collects the linens and the clothes into the basket himself and brings it outside for the ladies, and then receives the fresh things in like manner and singlehandedly irons them to perfection. He finds this particular work quite meditative, the sweat-inducing steam, the hissing and sighing of the hefty metal erasing the creases, the smell of hot damp fabric all congruent to his yearning to absorb his new life with his very pores, to physically experience Gondor. His back, shoulders and all the sinews in his arms ache by the time he is done, his neck is stiff, his face flushed and his curls have all but disintegrated into a messy frizz, but Pippin is only happy for it. A famous veteran of the War, he could have arranged a very different life for himself, could have rested on his laurels in leisure and luxury in the gold-and-green court of Edoras, or sung with the Elves in the magical Rivendell, or enjoyed all the blessings of country life in the fair Ithilien – and even here, in Minas Anor, he could have lived without a care. But he is ironing shirts and could never ask for more.

This is work for the patient, though, but he needs to train his patience – and vigilance, for he is handling things at once delicate and dangerous and knows his own susceptibility to letting his mind wander off when he ought to _watch_ himself. It soothes him to see he is capable of standing at the board for hours without missing one wrinkle, without allowing the tiniest of burns to blacken the cloth or earning himself a single blister, without letting a single drop of his sweat fall from his brow and stain the fragrant flawless smoothness of his lord’s things. Each piece he then carefully, almost tenderly folds up, as though handling an airy soufflé that would collapse if he as much as breathed on it too hard – all to preserve the soft comfortable feel he has put into the material, to make certain its touch to Faramir’s skin will be mindful and untroubling.

Mindfulness is his weapon, and his little territorial conquest Pippin makes in much the same way that his lord prefers to win his own battles – by quiet, perseverant gentleness rather than force. Pippin fights and deceives no one, weaves no intrigues, does not try to parade his dedication and irreplaceability before his master – he simply makes everyone else redundant.

He does not, however, strive to make himself into an extension of his lord. He is very insistent on using only the official form of address with the Steward: what prudence he has managed to retain tells him it be best some appropriate distance be put between them, to ward off illusions – to keep him from forgetting himself. And not only that. He remembers how little it takes to arouse worry and questions in his new master, and on top of dreading becoming a source of distress to Faramir, he instinctively feels that as a servant he will be allowed more seclusion of emotion than a close friend. Thus he earnestly directs all his focus at precisely what he has been hired for: taking care of Faramir – regardless of whether or not Faramir himself is aware of such definition of Pippin’s duty.

Pippin makes small, unimportant changes. Faramir’s house slippers always get lost under the bed, so he puts a thick fluffy rug on the floor where Faramir gets up, so that first thing in the morning the man would not have to put his bare feet, warm and sleepy from under the blankets, right on the hard cool stone. He gets a different candlestick, one shaped such that the dripping wax would not fall on Faramir’s hand. He replaces the old ink in the well with a more expensive and harder to find variety, for Faramir writes with his left and often ends up smudging, both ruining the paper and staining his hand – and this new kind sets straight away, no leaks or smears.

He notices that when reading, Faramir often leans back in his chair, holding the sheet up in his hand and away from his face, his eyes narrowed in the way that for some reason pinches right at Pippin’s heart. Perhaps for a Ranger being a little farsighted is no problem, but for a man laden with plenty of official correspondence (not to mention all the literature Faramir goes through in his free time) it certainly is a bother. Pippin spends an afternoon digging through the local curiosity shop recently set up by a Haradrim merchant. When at last he finds a hand-held magnifying lens of polished amber set in a light latten frame, he gladly pays the outrageous price, for although Pippin knows the men of Harad are ruthless bargainers, he will not stoop to asking for a discount on a gift for his lord. But – although Faramir himself might not – he judges the matter too sensitive to actually proffer it as a gift, so instead he introduces it as a toy bought for himself, and pesters Faramir for nearly half an hour demonstrating how splendidly it makes his hands look bigger, and the pattern on the curtain look bigger, and the hairs on the quill look bigger, to then absentmindedly ‘forget’ it on Faramir’s desk. It seems to him he catches his lord grin at the manoeuvre, and blushes sheepishly, but the man says nothing. Instead, the next time Pippin brings him correspondence, Faramir politely asks if Pippin would mind kindly lending him the ‘toy’ for a little while.


	5. Chapter 5

Pippin is not much surprised the first time it occurs to him to dream of being more than an esquire and a friend to his lord. It is a perfectly ordinary day and he is in the middle of yet another much-repeated errand, when without a warning it tumbles over him, and his gaze goes vacant as he forgets about the existence of his task, and it all rushes through his inner vision, the undoing of clasps, the arrangements of limbs, the look in Faramir’s eyes, the feel of his fingers on Pippin’s cheek. There is no longer room for self-deception, but strangely he is not surprised by that either. It is all so clear and precise, and he feels so breathless, overwhelmed and happy that it takes Pippin a bit of effort to convince himself none of this has ever happened, that it is not a memory but a fantasy. Truly, with a man like Faramir, could it be possible to _not_ yearn for such memories?

Perhaps he ought to have been alarmed by how obvious and self-justified his own desire seemed to him, from the very start. Naturally, he laughs at himself for being so presumptuous as to imagine reciprocity, as to even allow the possibility – he laughs at himself but not at the feeling, for the feeling itself seems to him only rightful and appropriate when harboured for someone like Faramir, and it is but the fact of it coming upon someone so comically unsuitable for Faramir’s love that makes Pippin grin and shake his head.

Shake his head he may, and call himself a fool of a Took under his breath, but he does not try to resist, to be reasonable, to talk himself out of it. This is, without doubt, the most beautiful thing that has happened to him, by far more beautiful even than anything he had encountered in the enchantment-filled woods of Lady Galadriel – and he welcomes and accepts it with something almost like gladness. It feels true and good to devote himself to this man – and, after all, is this not what he has come here in search of, what had for so long eluded him, this firm certitude in the rightness of his place in life?

Of course he understands he could never, even in theory, be Faramir’s soulmate, much as Faramir could not find one among the girls who wash the floors: the incongruity of such a union would be simply preposterous. Naturally, Pippin’s standing is not exactly equivalent to that of a cleaning maid, and he has, in fact, seen quite a bit more of the world than Faramir himself, and is regarded as a hero around here, or at least many affectionately call him so, and he has fought in the name of Gondor alongside her men, and many had taken him for a prince of his land when first he came to Minas Tirith. Yet the point is not where on the social grid the guidelines of the Gondorian hierarchy place him – the point is that he himself, without anyone having to spell it out for him, knows only too well he is no match.

Thus he makes an earnest attempt at being modest – a quality he knows stands high with Faramir – and settles for dreaming of something relatively more fitting for someone like himself. He dreams of being allowed to provide comfort and diversion should his lord need it, of being graced with the chance to express his loyalty and reverence in full measure, dreams of taking their friendship as far as a friendship only can be taken, for love is out of the question.

Nevertheless he ardently strives to make himself, if only in his own eyes, less unworthy of Faramir’s love. It pains him to think it would be seen as embarrassing to Faramir were it to be discovered his esquire burns for him, and thus he tries to make himself as close as he can to a person whose affection would not taint his lord’s dignity.

He never takes days off when his master is in the City – but Faramir goes away on duty and for leisure quite frequently, and Pippin has more than enough time on his hands to try and ‘culturalise’ himself. He knows Faramir enjoys the Hobbit-lore legends and anecdotes Pippin shares with him – but he does not want to be solely a source of exotic tales, he desires to make a versatile and agreeable conversation partner after the manner of the folk like Aragorn, who can discuss literature, history and philosophy as easily as medicine, diplomacy and harvesting methods, effortlessly navigating between subjects and regularly throwing in delightful witty remarks and a speck of the latest gossip for the joy of gratuitous naughtiness. He knows he will never be remotely as versed or as clever as Aragorn, but he does not have to, for he is only a hobbit, and if he could evoke in his lord but a quarter of the excitement and curiosity that talking with the King apparently does, he would burst trying to contain his pride.

And much as the guards from his former company often stop him in the street, teasingly reproaching him for ‘abandoning old friends’, which basically means not coming along when they get together for a night of ale-accompanied revelry at an inn – indeed he always finds a polite way to decline. For Pippin knows Hobbits, just like many among Men, are not particularly good at drinking just a little, and he could really get by without Faramir coming to hear that his lagered esquire crashed off a table at a tavern or, worse still, fell asleep with his face between someone’s tits.

Instead of this and similar carefree entertainments he searches for ways to make himself useful when his services are not needed by the Steward. It seems to him that Faramir himself does much more than his duty actually requires, and it feels shameful to be dallying around while his lord works so hard. It seems most proper to dedicate himself to something self-effacing, something he would not do were it only for the sake of fun, and so he ends up at the Wards, where a spare pair of hands is always welcome. No healing-related skills lie in his possession, so he is usually entrusted with carrying pots, changing sheets and soothing tantrum-throwing children and hysterical adults. This is not an uplifting work for him, for the sight of pain and fear wearies him, as do all the unpleasant bodily things he sees, hears and, worst of all, smells along the way. He had thought the notion of having lent a hand in alleviating, if only a little, someone else’s suffering would be greatly rewarding and carry him through like on wings, but in reality he only feels drained and testy after each such visit. The perpetualty of it gets to him, the notion that no matter how many people are made healthy again, the cots are always swiftly occupied anew, that each cured malady always has a fresh one to come in its stead.

Then late one evening as he is busy carrying off an amputated leg, he bumps into the King, who, as it becomes apparent, comes here regularly as well – to help with the severest cases.

“My! Hello there!” Aragorn says, lifting his brows. He swiftly takes in Pippin’s soiled apron and the limb in his hold, and surprised appreciation clearly shows in the man’s face. “I’ve sure heard out dear Steward voicing a fascination with the healing arts, but was not aware you shared the passion,” he says quite conversationally, casually wiping his own bloodied hands on a cotton napkin.

“Er, I don’t… really,” Pippin replies with a vague it’s-hard-to-explain shrug, trying to disengage himself from the thought that the leg he is holding is still warm. Then, suddenly mortified, he hurriedly adds, “Actually, Lord Faramir doesn’t know I... that I do this.”

“All right,” Aragorn says slowly, sounding slightly amused and studying him a little more keenly than Pippin feels comfortable with. But then the man apparently decides to not give it much thought and smiles, “Well then, why don’t you come join me in the third ward and give a hand – seeing as you’re already here?”


	6. Chapter 6

At some point after a few months it suddenly hits Pippin that he can hardly recognise his life, his own self. Perhaps, as a foreigner, he would not appear that changed to a potential onlooker, but on the inside it feels he has lived a good decade in the past half-year – and he is the happiest he has ever been.

This is not the unthinking, unquestioning bliss of his early youth, when all he needed from life was a long sunny day and good friends to be boys with, to do foolish things together. Nor is this the surreal, ecstatic bliss of the Victory, when everything around him shone with wonders and his heart sang all day long. This, he feels, is some grown-up form of happiness, steady and self-aware, grateful and very private. His days pass in a purposeful organised manner – and, as opposed to when he was a mischievous hobbit tween, this is to him a source not of misery but of satisfaction and pride. He loves the predictability, for this predictability means he will see Faramir, and Faramir will speak with him, and he will be able to serve Faramir and make Faramir smile upon him and say thank you, Master Peregrin.

It makes him grin to remember how his father, upon hearing of Pippin’s upcoming departure, was exasperated and rueful, sighing and making theatrical gestures with his hands. “You are off to somewhere – _again_? What’s with you? How can we count on you to be the next Thain when we don’t even know where you are half the time? Pippin, when are you finally going to get a _droplet_ of responsibility in you…?”

Back then Pippin had been very tempted to make some unoriginal rebellious retort along the lines of ‘Never!’, but now he finds it amusing that his ‘adventure’ is turning him into quite the opposite of what his family are used to seeing him as. Too bad they shall never rejoice in the fact, for he is, of course, not returning.

In fact, so far away from the Shire it is becoming an effort to believe in the realness of his old existence. Curiously, it is Faramir himself who helps him to not lose connection completely.

Shortly after the beginning of his service it occurred to him how disrespectful it was to trample the fine rugs in his lord’s quarters with his bare feet, and so Pippin took measures.

As he was serving Faramir his afternoon refreshments, the man cast a look at Pippin’s new leather ankle-shoes the likes of which most common Gondorians wore, took a sip of his tea and, without looking at Pippin, asked conversationally, “What’s with the footwear, Master Peregrin?”

“I reckoned t’would be only appropriate, my lord,” Pippin said, trying to sound both courtly and casual, as though the matter was of no import at all and certainly indicative of nothing.

“Hm,” Faramir replied with a little nod, and took another sip. “I cannot imagine it being very comfortable, though – for someone who’s walked unshod all their life,” he observed, raising his brow a little but still not looking at the hobbit.

“Well… it isn’t,” Pippin admitted, thinking that the shoes, if anything, made him feel akin to a sheep that had suddenly found a saddle strapped to its back. In all Shire, only the folk in the Eastfarthing used boots, and seldom at that, only in the poorest weather. To see them attired so had always made him shudder, and now he knew it was even worse than the look of it would suggest.

Faramir nodded again. “I certainly appreciate your concern for the local ways, but there is no need to place yourself at an inconvenience over such a matter. Or is it perhaps you kindly catering to the preferences you have ascribed to me?” Pippin pursed his lips, and Faramir smiled. “Then take them off – and pray rest fully assured that had it mattered to me to have my esquire wear shoes, I would have hired one who already does.” After a minute, he added, “Oh, and by the way – if you wish, you may smoke in my presence too.”

“You don’t mind the pipe?” Pippin asked hopefully.

Faramir, or so it seemed to him, laughed a little oddly at this. “Not at all. In fact, I quite enjoy the…” the man waved his hand, “the particular _atmosphere_ it creates.”

“You do?” Pippin asked brightly and instantly bit his tongue. He had particular trouble getting rid of his habit of prodding people to say the same thing several times over, especially Faramir, who always patiently elaborated.

Faramir inclined his head, frowning slightly – or was it just a trick of the light in Pippin’s eyes? “Oh yes...” he said slowly, “to me, do you know, it smells like the woods, like... freedom.”

Pippin bowed his head politely, thinking that he, for one, had never noticed his pipe smelled like freedom – but if Faramir likes it that way...


	7. Chapter 7

Were it to become known, to many, Pippin supposes, he would appear not so much revolting as rather utterly ridiculous with his Big Serious Passion, with his True Love. He understands to the others he is funny – not seductive-funny of course, just boyish-funny, even cute-funny. That somebody such as him should suffer from a grand romantic affliction of the heart, and for one so much above and beyond him...

But he knows Faramir would not laugh.

He is quite strongly convinced that Faramir, should he find out, would not be angry or disgusted either, nor would he come to despise Pippin. Instead he will likely be sad and feel sorry for Pippin – and, worst of all, Pippin believes he would be disappointed. Disappointed to think that in wishing to become his friend, to understand him and learn him better Pippin is simply following an agenda, trying to get closer to an object of lust.

And even though in fact he respects Faramir too much to even secretly trespass on the man’s honour, to bury his face in Faramir’s undergarments when arranging the Steward’s things, to ‘accidentally’ let his fingers brush against what they shouldn’t when assisting the lord in the bath – Pippin watches over his secret’s safety with a zealousness second only to that of his watching over Faramir himself. For he knows that if it gets out, he will lose the blessing granted to him, the right to be by his lord’s side.

But he need not worry, and this he knows, too – for Faramir does not take him seriously. Well, at least not in _that_ sense. Nomenclature-wise Pippin may be made like everyone else, the same parts in the same order, but of course it can hardly occur to the Steward to even consider him for attractiveness. He may be tall by Hobbit reckoning, but he is still barely at eye-level with Faramir’s navel. Somebody, perhaps, could think up at least one erotic application for such measurements, but it is obvious Faramir does not.

Pippin is not offended, he has never truly counted on anything else – dreamt of, sure, but not actually expected. Besides, Faramir is not alone in that. People are very warm and friendly with him, and he feels welcome in the City, but he knows that he is just too different to be welcome in _some_ ways. It does not help that his appearance is such that the Big Folk associate him with a child, with a young adolescent at best. He has met many a ten-year-old who was taller and broader than he, and his beardless face and youthful features only exacerbate the impression. Add to it the bizarre detail of his feet – something, he does not doubt, most of the locals find rather… unpleasant.

Therefore he is greatly surprised the first time interest is shown in him – alas, not by Faramir… But he knows this interest goes no deeper that curiosity with a pinch of boredom thrown in.

In the years after the War the City has suddenly found itself receiving all sorts of folk. The handsome, noble-faced blue-clad men of Dol Amroth; the svelte fair Elves with their clear voices; the sturdy full-bearded dwarves with their deep throaty laughs; the green-eyed men from the far South, with skin like coffee-with-milk and frizzy brown hair; the tall slender men from still further South, their eyes liquid and soft, so dark their pupils and irises have no border, their skin a cool matte shade of black; the ragged Rangers from the North, all wrapped in mystery and the nose-tickling aroma of tobacco; the open-faced blond riders of Rohan, all white smiles and jokes that make the ladies blush and shriek with a mixture of outrage and delight – and, of course, the lone Hobbit in the black-and-silver livery and no shoes.

He knows he is only getting his little share of attention, for all this diverse abundance of maleness suddenly flooding the streets is bound to disturb the peace and quiet in the inner world of a certain make of the city women. They are merely curious, he understands, about _what it would be like_. There are all sorts of rumours abroad, spawn practically out of nowhere. That the dark men of Harad are wondrously endowed, twice that of a fair-skinned man. That the Elves have no hair under the arms and do not break a sweat when engaging in love sports – nor do they impolitely fall asleep directly afterwards. That the Northerners with their knowledge in bodily energies can control their arousal by force of will – truly, he ought to share this one with Aragorn. That the Rohirrim like to take a woman in such a way as though he is a stallion and she his rider. That the Hobbits…

Now, he does not know what is being said about the Hobbits – and, no offense to the ladies, he is in no hurry to fill in the gap. Not that he is afraid of being a disappointment or, worse, an embarrassment: he is not physically incompatible, especially with the more petite of the daughters of Men, who top him in height by little more than a foot. No doubt he would be seen as modestly made by a man of Gondor, but he is not so ignorant as to believe said modesty would stop him from making a woman happy.

More importantly, he feels squeamish. He understands his passion would be deemed strange, if not altogether ridiculous, by most – but to him his feelings are pure and beautiful, like Elven cut-glass. Loving Faramir has made him a better and cleaner person, and he does not want to stain himself and insult his love by engaging in some mindless red-faced copulation with a lady who is only attracted by his otherness and unusualness.

His body, however, would beg to differ. It had not signed up for a life of love-sick celibacy, and seeing the object of his fantasies from dawn till dusk – and in the spare time handling his lord’s personal things that still as though bear the warmth of Faramir’s touch – oft leads to Pippin wallowing through visions of unbridled self-indulgence pretty much all day long.

He is not much worried Faramir would catch on. Again, Faramir does not see him in that sense. Moreover, Faramir’s own goodness is the Hobbit’s best protection – how could a man such as he ever suspect such a twisted desire on the good Master Peregrin’s – on anyone’s – behalf? For these things, one male desiring another, are unheard of around here. Or, rather, they are deemed so vile it is judged the better to keep up the collective pretence they do not exist to begin with.

Not so in the Shire. A hobbit’s youth is long, more than thirty years to horse around and enjoy oneself. No one expects remarkable maturity – or prudence, at that – from a green hobbit-lad, especially when he has belted down a few. On the short, things happen. And folk – well, hobbit-folk are sensible and do not like to worry overmuch (everyone knows stress is bad for digestion), so generally no one is interested in making a fuss.

Now, Pippin would be the first to punch anyone who dared question the moral health of his homeland. The girls are always treated with respect and courted well, and the proper girls always know better. It is simply that people prefer not to take too seriously the things that need not be taken too seriously. Meaning is not ascribed to and ‘conclusions’ are not derived from things that are really quite inconsequential…

But in Gondor – oh, in Gondor, for some reason, all sorts of heavy-weight adornments are attached to a man’s private life, as though he is to bear it as a standard before himself. Honour. Self-worth. Maleness – or perhaps this one ought to be the first in the list. Decency. General virtue of character. Temperance. Reliability. Responsibility. Respectability. _Honour_.


	8. Chapter 8

The state of things at home is far from jolly, that much is clear beyond speculation even though Pippin has not once been to Emyn Arnen in person. It is not part of his routine to accompany Faramir to the Ithilien estate, for there the Steward still relies on the services of a former esquire – an arrangement the ridiculousness of which never ceases to amaze Pippin. Truth be told, the hobbit is also not a little jealous on account of Beregond – although he understands it is but a product of his own inflamed imagination, he cannot shrug away the thought that Beregond, unlike his own unfortunate self, would perfectly match his lord’s dimensions were it to come to that. Beregond’s devotion knows no limit, of which the Steward himself is living breathing proof, and Pippin is sure that if Faramir – theoretically speaking, of course – were to as much as give the man an according look… Thus, although Pippin does in part miss his former comrade in arms, he is not too eager to actually be called to Emyn Arnen and have that potential compatibility rubbed in his face.

Besides, he does not need to witness it with his own eyes to know that whatever passes in Faramir’s official home does not bring joy to the Man’s heart, or if it does, aught else well outweighs it. The visits are never long, as often as not Faramir would leave early on the morn and already be back in Minas Tirith by nightfall. Worse still, upon returning it always takes him a couple of days to relax and become his normal self. He appears strangely homeless after these trips, as though he goes to be an uninvited guest in his own house.

Pippin always takes care to make him extra-comfortable on such days – for who else would? Indeed, Pippin knows that neither is there a special and dear someone waiting for his lord in the City. All his nights Faramir spends by himself in his chamber, and Pippin’s little bedroom being within the Steward’s own quarters lets him be absolutely certain of his master entertaining no company whatsoever – and as for the daytime, almost all of it moves according to schedule, and Faramir is never out of public or his servant’s sight for considerable amounts of time. Yet the knowledge comes to Pippin not through these rational paths. Pippin knows because something about his lord speaks solitude, so plainly as if Faramir had it embroidered in silver-thread on the chest of his tunic.

Only solitude at first, and that brings Pippin a guilty selfish consolation, for it leaves Faramir free for him to belong to in his dreams. But as the season draws to an end, slowly yet inexorably beside the solitude grows and blossoms its ever-present twin, loneliness – and Pippin begins to ache for his master, and wishes he were rather happy than free. Yes, there is nothing, it seems to him, that he would wish more than his lord’s happiness.

Perhaps it is Faramir’s own composition of character that has rubbed off onto his esquire, but on certain quiet, drizzly days Pippin, much to his own initial surprise, finds a particular fragile beauty in this ironic arrangement. Most other men in his lord’s stead would seem miserable, or else embittered – but Faramir not so. To Pippin, Faramir in his patient, undemonstrative sadness is beautiful. It as though lends him something special, something clear, something... Pippin can never coherently explain it even to himself. Something poetic, in soft rainy shades of blue and lilac, in gentle minor tones. Something that could be laid onto music and turned into a song. The loneliness as though emanates from him, the way certain flowers fill up a room with fragrance, a fragrance that goes not to the nose but straight to the heart.

Although Pippin usually calls on his sense and shoos all this maudlin nonsense away, and does everything to make his lord’s quarters cosy and inviting, he cannot quite dust the sentiment out of the dimmer corners.

It is the dark season, and it is only natural that Faramir should cover his legs with a blanket when sitting in his armchair before the hearth, and wear his woollen stockings to bed. Still, Pippin wishes he could wrap himself around the Man to ward off the cold, for he knows it is not of the sort that duvets and scarves can chase away. He wishes he could climb into the steaming bath together with his lord – there certainly would be enough space. He wishes he could slip under the bed covers while Faramir is getting ready for sleep, so that when he gets in it will be already warm and mellow, and no need to put the hot-stone in between the sheets. He wishes he could kiss a blush to Faramir’s lips, and breathe heat against the man’s neck, and offer him all the warmth and intimacy that his hobbit body can hold.

Instead he only checks the third time over that there are no draught-inviting cracks in the window frames, and the water in the tub is only a degree short of scalding, and the towels are not over-starched, and there is a steaming cup of tea for his lord to welcome the arrival of yet another morning.

But Faramir indeed is lonely, and a lonely man cannot help but be drawn to what warmth is within reach – and thus, step by step, touching him becomes part of Pippin’s daily duty. Faramir had never been of the lazy luxuriant disposition, a man who would rather send a servant than lift a finger. Nevertheless, Pippin finds himself regularly undressing his lord – nothing intimate, of course, only the boots and outer garments, including ceremonial armour after official occasions. But oh, the very fact of unbuckling straps, undoing lacings, opening collars and pulling things off submerges Pippin in a shimmering, swirling semi-dream state, for in his mind he does not stop at this but slips his hands beneath the rim of Faramir’s undershirt, brushes against hipbone, feels the taut powerful warmth of the man’s thigh... And then he catches his breath and blinks himself back to reality, praying to the Western deities of Gondor that Faramir not notice his burning cheeks. And Faramir does not, for his gaze is absent, elsewhere.

The first time Faramir asks that Pippin shave him, Pippin thinks he is joking. But no, it is a request as earnest as it is unsuspecting. The very thought makes Pippin’s throat go dry, a gracious gift far too good to be true, but he bravely tells his master he has never done this, for obvious reasons, and perhaps Faramir would be safer to entrust such a delicate matter to someone with more skill. _Nonsense_ , Faramir says, highly amused. _There’s naught difficult to it, I’ll be happy to teach you._ And indeed he has to, literally, for Pippin’s hand is shaking so much as the hobbit tries to scrape off the hint of a stubble from his lord’s jaw that Faramir is placed under some serious risk of having his throat slit. Of course the Man does not know that the better part of the shaking is caused by something other than nervousness, and Pippin has assumed such a grimly grave expression when embarking on this dangerous task, that glancing back at him Faramir chuckles, a vibration that Pippin can feel with his fingers and the side of his hand.

 _All is well and good, Master Peregrin, there’s no need to fret so. Here,_ he says with affection, taking a confident hold of Pippin’s hands, and Pippin must shut his eyes for a moment...

This is happening during his morning bath, a good way to use the time, the Steward said, and the skin is relaxed, easier to shave. As if it was not bad enough that standing behind and to the side of him Pippin can see everything down in the hot water, now he has this very same water that has caressed and lapped at his lord’s fair skin trickling from Faramir’s moist hold on him down his forearms and into his rolled-up sleeves. Pippin bites his lip hard and tries to look concentrated. _Hold my face steady – don’t be afraid, hold firmly, your fingers shan’t bruise me. Now, with the other hand – angle it like so, and there we go. See, naught difficult to it, is there?_ Pippin mutely shakes his head: no, of course not, ’tis easy as I don’t know what, if only you knew what an acute, painful pleasure you are giving me right now…

Pippin is at best half-conscious by the time they are through, but Faramir is content and praises him – and surely tomorrow he will do even better.

***

And then, very gently at first, it begins to change, the texture of Faramir’s loneliness.


	9. Chapter 9

The season has changed.

In terms of emotional weather, too, it feels to Pippin not unlike when the stuffy rooms kept shut throughout the long winter at last let in a breath of moist and promising spring air. By some intuitional attunement to his master he senses that what is happening to Faramir is a good thing, a healthy and natural thing – although at first Faramir appears to be growing even sadder than before.

Yet there is something hopeful to his sadness, there is energy, there is an enduring vibrant yearning. More and more often Pippin finds him sitting at the desk vacantly staring out the tall ornate window, his letters and scrolls forgotten – but this vacancy is what only a stranger would see, for Pippin who has learnt to read him like a map sees deep burning intensity in the man’s steely eyes.

Faramir has taken to pacing the room back and forth to eventually come to that same tall window, lean sideways against the frame, hug himself on the middle and gaze out, long and unmoving. Eventually he sighs, and frowns, and shifts the weight of his body to another side – and carries on gazing.

Pippin can tell his master does not quite notice this in himself, does not see the change in his own habits, not just yet – but Pippin does.

Faramir is restless – then before long he develops a tendency for moodiness, as a hale stallion kept overlong in his stall. Some days his bearing may radiate cheerfulness and contentment, and he would have the panes opened wide, so that freshness fills the room and, much to Pippin’s dismay, papers are intermittently blown off the tabletop. Faramir only laughs, crosses his arms behind his head and leans back in his chair. He spends the mornings riding or shooting away in the archery range, and more than once Pippin catches him humming under his breath. Then suddenly he as though revises his opinion on something, and at once becomes dejected, even strangely awkward. He is irritable as far as to snap at Pippin a little, although of course a sincere apology is swift to follow. He frowns too often, and his fingers tap a slow troubled rhythm on the polished wood of his desk – a habit he has not displayed before, just like the humming.

At this point, it is apparent Faramir has caught on to what is taking place – for he is careful to let none of this volatility of humour show in public. It gladdens Pippin to know that Faramir does not restrain himself in his company because the hobbit sees in this a testimony of his lord’s trust in him. But on the other hand, when he accompanies the Steward on matters of duty and watches him as though turn into a different man – nothing outside the definition of the perfect officer, a faultless advisor to the King, ever calm, collected and modestly amiable, endlessly patient and always politely pleasant – Pippin cannot help but feel strangely grieved. The Hobbit has grown well accustomed to watching his own every move whenever there is an audience, but certainly his lord deserves a better lot.

He knows Faramir is worried, worried very much – and every night asks the Valar the man would confide in him, if only a little. Pippin is not hungry for any specific details, only wishing Faramir would know that he can unburden himself to him, that he would listen and understand – because Faramir is evidently haunted, and aside from his old battle horse there just as evidently is not a single creature in this city or anywhere beyond he could tell about it – and Pippin knows how it is to have no one to turn to.

There is no talk of sweet surrender: vain as it may seem, the man is putting up a brave however desperate act of resistance against the winds of change lashing in his face. For one thing, he has not abandoned his practice of regularly sending personal letters and gifts to Emyn Arnen. And these are not some generic lazy-husband gifts, like pretty trinkets or cuts of fashionably coloured silks and velvets for a new dress, that one turns to for compensating a lack in the warmth of heart. Every one of them is truly meant to bring her joy and has thought and care put into it, as Pippin knows well enough seeing as the making and delivery of these packages never passes without his involvement at one point or another. But he has also noticed that there is never anything in any sense intimate about the choice of present, never anything beyond a certain line – each is something one would be unashamed to bring to a beloved sister or a dear friend.

And nothing, ever, comes for Faramir in return. Pippin does not know if custom has it that wives of Gondor – or Rohan, for that matter – be only on the receiving end, but he has a feeling that had she _wanted_ to...

In fact, there is not a single object in the Steward’s rooms to betray the fact the man is even married. None of her things, nothing made by her for him, nothing he himself would bring here to remind himself of her. Moreover, what ceremonial traditionally decorated gifts King Eomer has bestowed upon the Steward are all kept in the hall or the reception room, neatly and with respect, but well out of the living part of the quarters.

To think of it, in all his time in the Kingdom Pippin has not laid eyes upon the White Lady. For all he knows, not once has she sat by his lord’s side on all those occasions where the noblemen come with their noblewomen; not once has she strolled with him, hand in hand, through the streets; not once has the vast bed in the Steward’s chamber known the weight of her body.

Speaking of bed, the man does not sleep so well either. Pippin often hears the springs creak well into the night, the mattress sighing each time he tosses around, onto the left side – no, onto the right, on the belly, no, on the left again. Eventually Pippin gets up and heads to the kitchens, whence he brings his master a mug of warm milk with honey or raspberry jam. Faramir always smiles at him with something almost like guilt when the Hobbit enters the bedroom with the drink in one hand and a burning candle in the other.

The way he sits up in bed, hunched up a little, the way the white fabric of his night-shirt strangely makes him look more undressed than if he were actually naked, the way he says nothing at all to his esquire, every detail makes Pippin want to linger, maybe even dare perch himself on the corner of the man’s bed, say something casual to strike off a sincere talk. He would work it into the conversation somehow. _Tell me about her_. Such simple words.

But he never does. This, he senses, may be a losing battle, but it is a private battle nonetheless.

Pippin notices Faramir has become more attentive towards his looks. Getting ready for the court in the mornings, he is often displeased with the way his hair lies, and sometimes will take off the things he has already put on in favour of something else. Much as Pippin loves him, the Hobbit finds this quite ridiculous. The man is gorgeous beyond reason, gorgeous when wearing his stewardly robes, gorgeous when coming flush-faced and dusty for a quick shower after a ride, when sitting on the edge of his bed in a linen under-shirt pulling on his boots, or stretching out in the bath with eyes closed and wet locks plastered to his scalp and neck.

How strongly infatuated Faramir must be to become self-conscious like so...

Pippin grins to himself when thinking thus. He knows exactly how strongly: his master is not a man of half-measures, Steward Faramir is not one to be just _a little_ in love.

And Pippin, although it guts him that his lord’s feelings are without hope, for of course he cannot and would not leave his wife, and moreover would not taint Lady Éowyn’s honour by taking another woman into his bed, and naturally would not endanger the good name of whichever maiden or dame it is he desires – despite this Pippin is glad for him. For, basing on how it is for his own self, he believes it is better by far to love than not to, no matter the fortune of the love. He adores Faramir too much to judge the man, and hardly would have he been able to disapprove or respect him any less had his lord indeed taken a mistress – and as he daily picks up the signs of Faramir’s inner torment, Pippin comes to find himself wishing that this union would indeed come into being.

 


	10. Chapter 10

To make matters worse, much to Pippin’s pained disbelief, a strain must have crept into the friendship between the Steward and the King. 

Their previously frequent riding trips into the woods and fields nearby have become noticeably sporadic – one or the other more often than not finding some strange last-minute excuse to cancel – and upon returning Faramir always looks ill at ease and more spent than the physical exertion could explain. 

Where are the unhurried talks by the hearth, where are the long convoluted tales of past adventures told with no purpose but that to sit together and watch the evening pass? Where are the brotherly embraces, the pats on the shoulder, the jocular competitions in strength and agility, where is the hearty loud laughter at silly boyish jokes well past the men’s age?

And even when duty brings the two together, there is less mutual joy in their exchange than there once was. The sensation of inherent affinity has seeped away, there are more official figures of speech and fewer smiles, there is as though a touch of affectation to everything – and at some point Pippin realises that being in Lord Elessar’s presence at the side of the Steward makes him want to stand at attention. More often than ever before he sees that unpenetrable, remote majesty the High King had at times displayed during the War, and the remoteness is cold and unwelcoming, smooth and slippery like wet ice. 

Also, and this is even more alarming, a couple of times Pippin thinks he catches the generally sweet and peaceful Queen glancing over at Faramir rather unkindly. They are fleeting, these glances, the askance flight of her inky eyelashes in the young man’s direction alike to a swift batting of a butterfly’s nervous wings – so fleeting Pippin would have entirely written them off, as fruit of his confused, searching imagination, were it not for the fact that from under the lashes, it cuts and it burns, the gem-like brightness of her grey eyes. 

Pippin prides himself on never standing around yawning when he is with his lord, and as he watches with his hobbit discretion, a kindly little half-friend half-jester who never puts anyone on guard, he begins to see a pattern. A blush ever imprints on her white cheeks when the Steward comes into her sight, but while that could be attributed to any number of perfect coincidences, a more reliable sign to Pippin’s mind is that the Elf-lady’s fingers suddenly come alive upon the man’s entrance. Her serene elegant hands continue to lie in seeming idleness, but the slender fingers start tapping, and picking, and pinching, and twisting, these tiny, inconspicuous motions to fix an intricate detail on the cuff of her narrow sleeve, to smooth out a crease in the freshly ironed tablecloth, to adjust a piece of cutlery just so, to exact and ultimate symmetry. Yet most telling of all, she has taken to carrying on as though Faramir is altogether not there, apparently having developed a strange migrating deafness that always seems to reside in that side of her head to which the Steward is. More than once this results in public awkwardness, Faramir’s words addressed to the Lady Evenstar left hanging in the air as she nonchalantly turns to engage company elsewhere. She has enough pedigree and graceful poise for it to appear entirely accidental, but Pippin has observed that these accidents never befall anyone but his lord. The King may be always swift to pick up the line, but does so with such animatedness that it takes Pippin considerable self-restraint not to wince. 

People like to talk, and being as Faramir is a popular figure, it has not escaped Pippin’s notice that there is a measure of speculation abroad regarding the state of the Steward’s marriage. Is this some form of female solidarity speaking in the Queen then, a dislike based on the assumption Faramir has somehow wronged his wife who has already suffered enough? Is it by chance one of the Lady Arwen’s many Elven maidens, some of them with hair like strands of the finest gold-thread and cool grey eyes, who has disturbed the peace of the man’s heart?

But somehow this does not quite seem to strike the mark, and eventually the hobbit has to wonder if there is some other truth to it – if perhaps the Queen has taken it into her conviction that Faramir is having disloyal thoughts about _her_. The Steward is certainly most reverential to the royal lady, and just as certainly he is a man sensitive to beauty – but this?! And suddenly she is not so very wondrous to Pippin anymore – suddenly she is but a conceited regal doll with an inflated sense of self-importance. Come to think of it, aside from the remarkable appearance and exalted lineage – what is there to make her so ruddy special? 

These are foul, likely unjustified thoughts, but – how dare she, how dare _anyone_ ever even come up with the notion his lord would disgrace himself by hungering for his sire’s woman? At least, he tries to hope, Aragorn is cleverer than that, and the forced cheer on the King’s behalf is his way of making an unspoken apology for his wife’s uninviting conduct. 

This is rather new to Pippin, harbouring in his bosom ill-feelings towards those around – and not entirely in line with his nature, come to that. But he cannot suppress the mounting frustration with the King. The Faerie Queen, fine, who can decipher their lot, but Aragorn, the good old Strider who seems to never have quite learnt how to shave his jaw, who always knows how to come out smelling like a rose, who always has such a sound grasp on things and a secret herb stashed in his pocket to make everything just right – why would he not rein the absurdity? 

Does he not know there is not that much in Faramir’s life that does not in one way or another revolve around him, around anticipating his every need and fancy? The Steward serves the state, one might say, but Pippin knows that in his master’s eyes the state and the King are one, and furthermore, if by some twist of fate Faramir were forced to choose one at the expense of the other, Pippin believes the decision would be firm and unhesitant. The White Tree and the Silver Crown – glorified symbols of their noble heritage, they may preserve a sacred legend in the people’s hearts, but what can they actually _do_? Whereas Aragorn would rebuild Gondor afresh should the need arise, and a new Tree would blossom at the touch of his gifted hand.

Yet all this is apparently absent from the King’s own trail of reasoning, and after one particularly tense dinner, as Faramir sits atop the embroidered bedcover back in their rooms, slumped forward and rubbing the back of his neck, Pippin cannot help but finally wonder aloud, cautiously as he can, if something, maybe, perhaps, is amiss at court?

The man jolts and stares at him. “Why should you ask?” he quietly utters in what, inconceivably, appears to Pippin like sheer panic. 

“No! No, I... oh, just... a random question,” Pippin assures him hastily, mortified to have further upset his master in his clumsy nosiness. 

Well, to a certain extent this does answer his question, for one thing.


	11. Chapter 11

It has been very much a hectic week. The Queen with her maidens had ridden to abide for a while at the Elven settlement across the River, and have been gone for several days now, but the King has been unable neither to accompany her party as had been initially agreed nor even to join it later, all for the overflow of the matters in need of attending to. 

Naturally, Pippin, too, has been running this way and that earning blisters for his poor feet, fetch this, arrange that, cancel, reschedule, present apologies, etc. And naturally as well, he is in exceptionally high spirits, for it is in times like these he can revel in secret pride that Faramir relies on him, _needs_ him. Moreover, all the official business seems to have his lord’s attention safely occupied, with little time to spare for the more unpleasant bethinking, which to the hobbit is a great and blessed relief.

Yet another hot day without a breather is finally approaching a twilit end, and Pippin has returned to their quarters half an hour ahead of his master to set up a quiet meal and draw a warm mind-relaxing bath. He is in the middle of aligning on the tub’s rim a selection of various aromatic essences his lord might wish to add to the water, when the door in the hallway is loudly closed and the man’s energetic footsteps proceed to the bedchamber.

Pippin peeks out of the bathroom.

Faramir is standing in front of the tall mirror, gilded so artfully by many a broad Dwarven hand, and scrutinises himself critically. 

“Your lordship...?” Pippin calls, for something is apparently afoot.

Faramir chews on his bottom lip, displeased. “This robe is all creased,” he observes. And so it is sure enough, for a summer garment of pure linen can hardly live through an active day and by some miracle manage to remain presentable.

Pippin rushes to the closet and produces a near identical cream-coloured piece, equally modest, hardly adorned, comfortably loose around the body – a perfect choice for one who seeks to work unencumbered or enjoy a well-earned rest.

But Faramir frowns.

“Nay,” he says, and Pippin notices his fingers curl. “I am thinking something more...” he waves his hand, as though searching for the proper word to explain his mood. But suddenly he folds his fingers back into the palm and brings it to his chest, and there is doubt in his face – as though this decision is very important, somehow largely significant, a turning point.

Pippin feels a mixture of excitement and unease come over himself at once, but he swallows and does not bat an eyelid. He only puts the tunic back in its place and takes out another one – black with that satiny finish that accentuates the lustre in Faramir’s raven hair. A thin elegant design in silver-thread runs around its collar – truly the only little touch it takes to bring out that clear-water spark of Faramir’s gaze. It is shorter, too, reaching only to the middle of the thigh, with cuts to the hip at the sides – surely purely practical, but nevertheless this make has something youthful about it, something light-hearted, something almost _playful_. Besides, Pippin cannot help thinking, these purely practical cuts would call the eye to the lean muscled curves of the man’s legs that the snugly fitting breeches would be hardly helping to conceal.

He sees satisfaction warm up his lord’s eyes as Faramir takes in the look of the shirt. 

“Yes,” he says with a shadow of a smile upon is lips. “You are verily a reader of minds, my good friend.”

Pippin sighs inwardly. _You could go there –_ wherever _it is that you are obviously going – draped in a tattered old sack with your hair tied into a knot atop your head, my lord,_ he thinks. What difference would it make? If there is someone you wish to impress, how could you – _you_ – possibly fail? 

But, as has become the custom with him, he says nothing at all. Instead, while his master heads to the bathroom to wash the day’s dust from his face, he returns to the closet – and takes out an as of yet unworn gift from one visiting aristocrat or another: a fine cloak of Elven silk, light and weightless, long enough to almost sweep the floor and white as the morning snow.

“A cape?” Faramir raises his brows as he appears in the doorway, his long fingers adjusting the dark collar around his neck.

“The night is nigh at hand,” the Hobbit says with a straight face, “it may get chilly.” And more importantly, you would look stunning in it, he does not add.

“Fair enough...” Faramir agrees slowly as he receives the cloak from him. Pippin sees something in the man’s face change when the fabric falls into his hands, for it is as though woven of rose-petals gathered at dawn, and just _calls_ to be touched.

In one lithe gesture Faramir throws it around his shoulders. He sighs, content, for the contrast is magnificent, and a modest a man as he is, even he surely cannot entirely fail to see that. 

“Not too much though?” he muses in a last wave of doubt.

Quickly, Pippin makes a face dismissive of all concerns.

“No, no, no,” he murmurs in the way he has seen the elderly and slightly authoritative servants use so successfully on their masters.

Faramir grins at him through the mirror.

“Ah, don’t I know you well, Master Peregrin,” he says. “Were you to have your way, you’d have me decked out as a hero every day of the week.”

“Oh, do we have any plumed helmets then?” Pippin offers brightly, catching in his lord’s tone a change for the positive, a change for the hopeful.

“Plumed helmets?” Faramir laughs. “No indeed! But you are right, _that_ would be too much – but this,” he pats the smooth material on his shoulder, “this is good.”

He leans closer to the looking-glass, tucks his hair behind his ears, pauses for a moment, then pulls it back out.

Speaking as though to his own reflection, “Something has come up,” he says, as though it is not already beyond obvious, “I shall be going.”

“Would your lordship be needing anything?”

“Nay, ’tis but a private little supper, my professional things would be of no service,” Faramir replies, heading off already.

Pippin bows acceptance, but on the inside, he feels the heat of outrage lick at his ribcage. Some nerve, asking the lord of his master’s calibre to a private supper on such short notice, for only two hours ago there had been no such event in Faramir’s plans, this Pippin is certain of. And Faramir, too, jumping at the invitation like a smitten boy.

Suppressing the disrespectful notion, “I have never seen you look so fair, my lord,” he says to the departing man’s back, and the words come easily to his lips for it is the holy truth.

Faramir glances over at him, and his grey gaze is troubled.

“Thank you, Peregrin,” he replies quietly.

At the door he hesitates, only to tell Pippin what the Hobbit already knows. It is bound to last well into the night, this casual little occasion he is off to, no need for Pippin to wait up.

Pippin can go for the day, he says, get some rest. 

As if, Pippin thinks – but he nods in compliance, and to himself he smiles, for it has quite escaped his lord’s notice that even when Faramir gives him leave, Pippin does not retire to his own room in the servants’ quarters. He ever by far prefers to stay in his little chamber within those of the Steward: presumably, to be nearby should something be required of him, but in truth just because he wants to be around, because it feels more like home. 


	12. Chapter 12

He sits on his little bed in his little room – and he has no desire for sleep. 

It is dark out, stars twinkling peacefully in the inky heavens as though the whole sky is but a piece of Gondor’s standard. And he is as wide awake as if it were six in the morning and the sun had only just popped over the horizon.

He understands it is utterly unimportant how he spends this time, for tonight more than ever the import lies with his lord, where and with whom Faramir is, what he is saying and what... he is doing.

Pippin sighs. He recalls how uncle Saradoc would come to their house whenever aunt Esmeralda went into childbirth. He would pace around with glassy eyes, to eventually slump into the rocking chair in the dining hall where he would rock with hysterical determination, puffing on his pipe like an overstoked chimney, until Pippin’s mother would take pity on the fellow and assign to him some menial task around the house, ‘so that he’d stop driving us all to madness’. 

Pippin also remembers being fascinated by the potatoes uncle Saradoc was told to peel, how in several chops of the knife they all lost half their size to turn into perfect cubes, which invariably led to some rueful albeit silent head-shaking on behalf of Mistress Took. ‘So much fuss,’ she would comment afterwards, when the swaddled newborn Brandybuck lay safe and asleep in Brandyhall and the overjoyed father was off celebrating, ‘you’d think no one’s ever had a babe in this life’.

And exactly alike, this, too, is no once-in-history miracle, nothing new to it. It is silly to fret. A man going off to follow the demands of his heart, it has all happened before. 

Or maybe, maybe nothing will happen at all, maybe Faramir will have that supper and come back, and forget about it – and the lady, she will... well, she will all of a sudden – for some very plausible reason, of course – take off to some place far, far away, where she will probably end up lost in a sea-storm, or eaten by a bear, or anything, really – and no one will ever come to know of it.

Pippin sighs again. 

He has some old clothes in need of mending, but he does not trust himself with a needle, not right now. For want of anything else to do, he takes out the broom and the mop, and goes through every room, poking into every corner, crawling on his knees to get under closets and cabinets. When it occurs to him it might be a splendid idea to wash all the curtains as well, he decides it is time to stuff himself into bed lest he embark on something he might regret in the morning. 

He leaves a taper burning in the hall in case his master should return before dawn, although Faramir has been gone for so long that such an outcome is beginning to seem rather improbable. 

In Gondor, ‘private suppers’ do not stretch into the intimate hours of the night.

He does not close the door to his room – again, should his lord return and... well, require his esquire’s undelayed service. 

The pillow is soft beneath his cheek, but the rectangle of unsteady yellow light keeps Pippin’s eyes fixed on itself as though he were a hypnotised moth. He bites down on his lip, frowns and, calling on all of his will, forces himself to turn onto his other side, to stop watching, to stop waiting.

He pulls his knees towards his chest and wonders if she is like the Lady Éowyn, if his Faramir is searching for her image in other women. He calls forth a vision, slender, tall, upright as a lance, white of face and serious of gaze. Hair long and fair, of course. It would drape in loops and folds over Faramir’s bare shoulders and chest as he lies back and pulls her down with him, to him, kissing her snow-white throat.

Pippin frowns harder. Or maybe, she is the opposite of the Steward’s wife. Maybe she has olive skin and dimples at the corners of her mouth, and a mane of coarse dark locks, and she is jovial and light of spirit. She is kissable, and loveable, and earthy.

Or maybe she is not in any way relatable to the princess of Ithilien, maybe she is altogether _different_ , a new and separate person, another chapter, a new leaf, a clean slate.

What is absolutely without dispute, however, is that she would have a taut, sensuous fullness threatening to burst her cleavage open. She has to, just to underscore Pippin’s own inability to fulfil this particular masculine desire. If Faramir were so desperate for melon-like breasts, perhaps he would not have ended up marrying the Lady Éowyn in the first place, but Pippin prefers to ignore that rationale for now. There is, after all, a kind of satisfaction to twisting the knife. 

So, yes, she would have enough for Faramir to make love to her this way, to put himself between them. But Pippin does not quite believe his lord would take this course of action, at least not just yet. He is, no doubt, a very generous lover, he would only give, give, give, cater to her pleasures all night through. Although to think logically, the man that Faramir is, he would likely altogether not touch her on their first occasion in private, but Pippin cannot stand to force-feed himself any more naive hopes.

He stares ahead of himself, unseeing, and imagines how Faramir gently pulls open, maybe at this very moment, the front of her dress (it has to be heather-green for some reason), massages, so tenderly and slowly, the springy slopes, bows down to suck the coloured tips into his mouth. 

And no, Pippin decides. She would have no mass of curls – her sleek plaits would be long enough to weave into a basket atop her head, and he would unbraid them, and run his fingers through the tresses, smoothly and easily. And he would kiss her, sweetly, endlessly.

The hobbit lies all hot and bothered, but there is little arousal to it. His visions are filled with a strange light, golden, glowing, like mist, the man and the woman suspended in some timeless bliss, ambient and shimmering. No star or man-made fire could produce it, and he thinks maybe it is what the Trees in the deathless realm had been like, back in the ages past. But inside him there is no glow, no animosity either, not towards her, not towards his master – only sharp, jaw-twisting bitterness, like chewing on an old onion. 

And what if this is serious? But of course it is, Faramir would not be doing this if it were not serious. What if he loves this new love enough to put her above his reason? What if the Lady learns of it? What if everyone learns of it? What if he wants to stay by her at all stakes, to take her to wife? What if she already _is_ someone else’s wife? What if this is serious, what if  
Faramir has to leave Gondor?

What if Faramir has to leave Gondor?

This is ridiculous, Pippin tells himself.

He has by far exceeded all plausible capacity for ungrounded agonising that a young Hobbit of his wont could ever hold – but in the solitude of night, there is no such concept as ridiculous, there is no such thing as ruling out the possibility of disaster, however remote it may seem by light of day.

What if Faramir has to leave Gondor? 

Where will Pippin be then?

Were events to indeed develop thus, it would, of course, be entirely irrelevant to absolutely everyone where Pippin would be then. After all, when a village burns down, who will rue the loss of a teaspoon?

But how can he not think of his own place in the situation? He cannot imagine any spot in the known or yet uncharted parts of Middle-earth where he would not follow his lord, but this is little consolation. Because what if Faramir will no longer have need of him? What if Faramir will be unable to take him along wherever he would be going?

What if Faramir will no longer want him?

He may be the man’s personal attendant, but he had been sworn into service as _the Steward’s_ esquire, and if Faramir goes to where he will no longer be Steward, what use will Pippin be to him? If he chooses to live in modest exile alone with his love, how will his quaint little accessory fit into the picture?

Pippin does not at once realise that it is not his own sight that has gone black with anguish, but the little flame outside sputtering off, overrun, perhaps, by dripping wax.

Pippin huddles the covers closer around himself. What does it matter, he is not coming back.

Have some fortitude, old chap, from the onset it was clear as a thing written down that no treasure was awaiting you here. You had agreed to this – nay, you had volunteered. Have you not always known that your dreams would ever be only just that? There are good bits, and there are difficult bits, shut your eyes and sleep for the night to end.

But then it hits him that without the light, he is bound to keep lying there straining his ear for the door to creak open, for the soft fall of a ranger’s steps to signal his master’s return.

He puffs his cheeks and hauls himself into an upright position.

And just as he is about to tread into the hall and set that darned candle aright, his sensitive Hobbit-ear does indeed detect, through the thick masonry of the walls, sounds of someone approaching, and voices – outside in the corridor. He pauses, puzzled, for at this hour no one is supposed to wander into the nobility’s parts of the palace.

“Oh, better watch our step,” Faramir warns his unseen companion as he walks into the darkness the very next second, mere feet away from where Pippin has stopped.

A tall shadow of a shape appears behind the young man, contoured by what sparse illumination there is in the main passageway.

“’Tis alright, we’ve been through worse,” it says with a chuckle, before pulling the door shut behind them.

And Pippin is faint, week in the knees with selfish relief.

For it is the King. Only the King.


	13. Chapter 13

Faramir walks further into the unlit room, Aragorn leans against the doorframe, and Pippin’s relief is swift to give way to mortal embarrassment. His master will not be expecting him to all of a sudden pop up out of nowhere with offers of assistance – he should not be here at all, for has he not been dismissed for the evening? It does not matter, of course, for the only thing of import is that, by what the hobbit can judge from the short exchange he has witnessed, is the long hoped-for return of a genuinely affectionate tone between the two men. Nevertheless he does not want to attract attention to himself, to make his presence known lest he should somehow disturb this possibly fragile balance.

The safety of his little chamber beckons only a handful of steps away, but he feels certain that being the rangers they are they would notice him if he moves – and then he will have every reason to be embarrassed, having to explain why he is lurking around in the darkness at the small hours.

And so he remains, frozen, on the threshold, hoping against all reason that they will not touch the dratted taper.

“If you would give me but a minute, my lord,” Faramir calls from the bookcases at the far end of the hall, searching for something amid the thick volumes. “Ah, ’tis such a curious little thing... I had it here somewhere, I am sure... what a shame...”

Only now Pippin realises that Faramir’s voice rings strange, unfamiliar – realises that his lord is, in fact, tipsy. No, he thinks, scratch that: tonight Steward Faramir is drunk all right.

“In need of a helping hand, are we?” Aragorn suggests, amused, when Faramir swears under his breath.

“Nay, sire, pray do not wade in, I store such abundance of assorted loot in here, you might trip, and we would not want that.”

Aragorn chuckles, “How thoughtful, but I assure you, have no fright, I might–” but he cuts himself off, and snorts as though visited by a witty idea. He then picks up again, bending and stretching the words out to form a jolly, lopsided tune:

_I assure you, have no fright  
For your king, my friend uptight:  
He can see you shining bright  
Draped in Elven cloak so white –  
You shall be his guiding light  
In the darkness of the night._

With this, Aragorn follows the man to the shelves, and as he passes their little companion in his unintentional hiding place, a sour, spicy warmth wafts in Pippin’s face. The hobbit knows the smell, has never liked it: it is that thick Elven wine that would have a troll unconscious before the second bottle is gone; and judging by how Aragorn exudes the aroma with his own person, he must have at least doubled the Steward’s share. Worse still, Pippin catches the unmistakable notes of cinnamon, clove and that Elven spice he can never remember the name of, trailing in a plume after the King’s ditty – and he knows they have drunk the wine warmed and sugared, for it is indeed a cool night. Which would be no trouble, except that when heated, it goes to the head faster than a kick to the arse.

“Oh, sire, that was bad, _truly_ bad,” Faramir observes with a return chuckle. “Also – ‘uptight’? Why, thank you kindly.”

“Don’t be strict, I improvised. I would’ve also worked something like ‘his heart’s delight’ or ‘at first sight’ in there somewhere, only couldn’t quite see how. ’Tis tricky business, this poetry writing of yours, and my wit is not at its best in such fine company.”

Pippin feels his eyes growing rounder and rounder by the minute.

“How about, ‘find the damned thing – and bid good night’?” Faramir counters softly, although it is clear by the sound of his voice that he is struggling not to laugh. 

“See? See!” Aragorn cries, exceptionally pleased with himself. “Uptight – I was right!”

Faramir does not argue. Instead, “Uh, no use,” he says with a sigh, “not without some candle-light.”

But before he can turn around to search for some, the King steps up to him from behind.

Placing a hand on the shelf each side of his steward’s shoulders, “I insist: maybe I can help?” he offers, in a voice deep, and mellow, and both scratchy and velvety like the overgrown stubble on his jaw must feel. There is something lulling, hypnotic in the texture of this voice, but Pippin is completely overcome with foreboding, for the King of Gondor does not speak like so, not in court, and surely neither in private, because such tone, it...

“Nay, your lordship,” Faramir says, genuinely puzzled by the sound of it, “with all due respect, you are blocking out the light altogether.”

“Let that not worry you,” Aragorn replies, and Pippin can hear him grinning, “for lo, I have just found all I’d sought, my flawless, fearless knight.”

“You compliment me overmuch, majesty – for which I dare blame the heady drink.”

“I’ll humour you, let’s shame the drink...”

Faramir’s breathing audibly hitches as the King’s palm comes to rest upon the man’s black-clad flank.

_I’ve long sat tight, I’ve bid my time,_

Aragorn recites in a whisper, it seems, right into the man’s hair.

_To watch another chance take flight  
I’m altogether disinclined._

_Pray overlook my artless rhyme:  
Try as I might  
Find mortal words that would do right_

_By one like you, so full of light,  
This quest is surely doomed to blight,  
And hence – why try?_

_I’d rather spend my strength elsewise:  
I would this dream hold fast and tight,  
If only even for one night –  
Although who knows what could betide?_

_And speaking of the dark outside,  
I would indeed a flame ignite,  
But I care not for candle-light._

He nuzzles into the nape of Faramir’s neck, and Faramir gasps as one shaken out of a trance.

“I... I may no longer know...” and Pippin can hear the blurred thoughts spin in the younger man’s head, fighting to swim through the wine, “how to respond... lest I should prove to assign fallacious meaning to your words, sire.”

“Ah, do me a favour, my ever cautious Faramir, and drop the ‘sire’ already: it gets tiring, don’t you know,” Aragorn murmurs – too, _far_ too inebriated. “And let us waste no more breath on these games, for playing does not become you and no longer amuses me.”

“G... games...?” Faramir echoes in what is more a cough than a whisper.

“Don’t. You misunderstand me so persistently I shall no longer grant belief to this charade of unsuspecting ignorance. Modesty may befit you in the loveliest of ways, Faramir, and long has it gnawed at my imagination, but time has come when it will befit you even more to cast it off.”

Faramir bows his head and takes in a drawn-out, hissing breath through his teeth.

“No,” he says, with effortful firmness. He makes to detach his lord’s palm from his waist. “No... Call it what you will, sire: if ‘pretence’ is your choice of word, then so be it. If it has come to rude pretence being my only remaining defence, I shall gladly make use of it: my passions have brought about ruin before, so I would rather be a liar than a fool... And I... refuse... to read any meanings...” He tugs at the hand again, in vain, for it seems to have become glued directly to his skin through the fabric of his attire.

“Rather a liar than a fool? ’Tis not the Faramir that I know,” Aragorn hums with a grin. “You are by all means confusing yourself. Now,” the lord of Gondor makes a small, nearly imperceptible movement against the other’s fiddling hand, and in the next instant has the younger man’s wrist in a close twisted grip. 

Pippin sees his master’s pale fingers curl into a fist, clench, then slowly go slack. 

“Now,” Aragorn murmurs again, “pray turn around, let me set you straight.”

Pippin can only stare, transfixed as this strangest of fantasies unfolds before his very eyes. Surely this cannot be happening, but Aragorn flips Faramir about face, easily, as though in a dance, and Faramir is unresisting – nor does he make as much as a single sound of protest when the King heaves him into the bookcase with a savage kiss. A tome or two flutter forth and thud on the floor, splayed out like broken birds, and something heavy and fragile is knocked from its place and shatters with a ring, but only a muffled, startled noise escapes the Steward’s throat that if anything, speaks great willingness.


	14. Chapter 14

In the sparse moonlight falling on the King’s back, Pippin sees his lord’s white hands grasping awkwardly at the fabric of Aragorn’s tunic, too hungry to muster patience for a proper embrace. Aragorn is already pulling him somewhere, with a sense of great exigency, but Faramir is stalling, stumbling in his step, holding Aragorn on the face with both hands, kissing him like he wants to drain the man dry. 

They collide with a table, trip over a chair’s leg, there is sound of ripping cloth as Faramir’s fine cloak catches on a protruding element of a floor sculpture, that golden rearing horse from Rohan that Pippin has always secretly found vulgar and loathed. 

He wonders if, as the only sober person present, he has it as his duty to cut in – as if he actually could – to say, are you quite sure indeed, my much esteemed lords, that you shan’t hate yourselves for this come morning? Laugh it off before ’tis too late, and call it a night, shall we?

Of course, he does not.

Not so much because this is none of his business – which indeed it is not, although of course it is.

Mostly because he is perceptive enough – and has known them both long enough – to see that their questionable state is not what has brought this about. Sweet wine may have enabled it, this much is quite beyond dispute, for such men as the two of them so direly require the all-dismissing excuse of intoxication to let what must run its course, run its course. This sudden intimacy is fruit of nothing other than the long-harboured desire of his lord’s heart, which, as it turns out, is not so unrequited after all.

He understands that this explains everything.

In fact, how could have he _not_ understood earlier? A certain someone would have probably tapped him on the head with a long wooden staff, saying that Pippin had been living under a rock – with eyes shut and wool stuffed into his ears – for the past only Valar know how many months. Maybe – years?

They do not look lewd, ungraceful, or laughable as they cling to each other, caressing and groping in abandon, chuckling and uttering some incoherent words of passion in between their messy kisses. They look, above all, happy. 

And he lets it go. He only stands and watches – because no one sees him, and because he cannot move, because this is not real, because his heart is not beating.

He watches as they at last manage to traverse the antechamber into the next room, pushing and hauling each other along, continuously crashing into furniture, Faramir laughing and taking Aragorn by the hand, murmuring, “Come. This way…”

They bother not to shut any doors behind themselves, and he hears everything.

Faramir goes into it with the unhesitating alacrity of a first love, tender, burning, dazzlingly open-hearted. 

Just like in Pippin’s fantasies – only better, and not for Pippin.

He hears everything.

The whispered pleas for indecent things. The bold confessions smothered midway by desperate kisses. The swish and rustle of discarded garments, and the clink of a belt-buckle hitting the cool floor. The disapproving croak of the mattress, unaccustomed to such treatment, as two well-built men fell each other upon it. The sound of lip meeting lip, and lip meeting skin, and skin meeting skin, all in a frenzy, in unnecessary, irrational haste. 

Somewhere amidst it, Aragorn’s anxious, “My dear, there is no need—” and how it ends in a shocked, amazed cry. And how Faramir apparently has no space in his mouth for an articulate reply, how he chokes, unable to master it all, to take everything. And how he does not back down, no doubt convinced in his zeal that he must love his king to the very last inch. He chokes more than once again, and amid his hums of feverish enthusiasm his rhythmless service is accompanied by uncomely, gurgling noises. The Steward of Gondor obviously has no skill in this whatsoever, and how would he, but the other man is far from complaining.

He stands there and listens to Aragorn being blessed by fortune, and soon enough learns how it sounds when the King groans with the full might of his lungs. 

It goes on for so excruciatingly long, and he only tries not to imagine the older man’s palms cradling the back of Faramir’s head, long fingers burrowing into his beloved’s gorgeous hair, pushing him down...

“Enough... enough...” pants Aragorn urgently, dazedly, “come here...”

He cannot quite decipher what is happening next, but suddenly, a curt strained cry. Pippin jolts, as though it is he who is hurt, stabbed in his literal gut – and everything in him, every drop of blood in his veins, bids that he rush in and call that clumsy boar of a monarch to answer… But he hears Aragorn’s immediate apology, mumbled and gasping as it is, and it seems to him, reassuringly, that to the King the pain he has just caused is a distress no smaller than to his own throbbing heart.

Pippin breathes out and closes his eyes. His fingers are shaking, violently, but he can hardly register it. He is all there, with them, he can almost see.

He can almost see Aragorn’s hands rummaging, patting about blindly as the man stands on all fours amid the heaped blankets, begging Faramir to wait, wait but a moment, must be something... we can’t... can’t just like that... He can almost see the self-effacing fire in his lord’s face as Faramir wrestles with his liege, grabbing him on the arm, the shoulder, pulling him back to himself, declaring with the resolute heat of a man fey, a man possessed, that he cares not, pain, blood, flesh to shreds, come what may, come to me now.

Aragorn swears at him, and there is both a plea and a despondency in his curse, his voice almost tearful with need. 

Just don’t hurt him, please don’t hurt him, Pippin’s lips recite mutely, a heathen incantation to some unspecified, composite deity of universal justice. 

He knows the burning and the strain will be no match for his lord’s endurance. He knows Faramir is not daunted, never _has_ been daunted by anything in this mortal plane or any other. But _Pippin_ , Pippin can hardly inhale for the fear. He can no longer recall how it had been once, back, back in his previous life, when the burning and the strain were the greatest if not altogether sole concern, back in the day when such things had only one layer of meaning if any at all.

 _There are balms and soaps in the bathroom!_ he wants to shout. _Take something, take_ anything, _please!_

Please, just don’t hurt him. _He_ , of all people, deserves better than that.

But it is not his place to give advice, and it is not long before Faramir cries out again. It is drawn-out and gritting, this warped victory call of a man who had almost given up hope, and it keeps on slicing through Pippin’s ears until there is no air left in Faramir to carry forth his emotion. The jagged edges of this cry scrape raw the inside of Pippin’s chest, and the Hobbit reels, nauseous with dread, with superstitious horror, for in a way this is as a deafening chorus of trumpets heralding the end of the world, or at least the world as he knows it. 

A muscle in his face twitches as the bed begins to creak. 

He has never known what a shabby, good-for-nothing bed it is, how loudly it can creak. 

Is it for his Hobbit-hearing, or for the acute ache that permeates his whole body, but amid the grunts, and the yelps, and the grinding of teeth, and the curt affirmative exclamations, he can make out every intake of breath, every gasp, both gentle and sharp, every single helpless sigh...

Remotely, as though from a distance, he wonders how it is that his body remains so indifferent to it all. The man he has in his mind sucked dry countless, countless times, the man he has dreamt of being close with in any way possible, this man is being had so masterfully, only steps away – in fact, Pippin could even go watch, they could hardly spot him now of all times. He has no desire to watch. He has no desire to even listen, come to that, only that he feels he ought to – just to make sure... To make sure what?

They are getting restless, rough, for surely nothing feels enough, nothing could feel nearly enough. The rhythm breaks, there is shuffling, then a gruff satisfied grunt, and Faramir’s moans pick up anew, though this time muffled and distant. And Pippin can recognise that very particular robust clapping sound of hips colliding with buttocks. 

Dully, he marvels at Aragorn’s endurance. Most men when loaded as he would be hardly capable of _anything_ , and bedding a warrior the like of Faramir, and in such position, must be hard work – but the mighty king, so it seems, has decided to never stop. On and on, without end or even change of pace, like in one of those stories Pippin had heard as a child, where if the wood faeries catch you, they make you dance until you die. 

There is only so much a man fucked dry can take, and he can hear Faramir weeping into the pillow, biting his lips, coughing with pain.

Can the King not hear it? Does he have no heart, no pity, no conscience? This may be intimate, and ultimately satisfying for both, but it is merciless, cruel... Cruel with the inherent cruelty of the feral ways of nature, whence what is caught in a whirlpool will spin faster, and faster, and faster until it is sucked under, and what yields will be ravished.

Tears are streaming down his face, but he does not feel it.

His lord is screaming, and the King Elessar is roaring, and by the sound of it the headboard is beating against the wall.

Like unto no passion he has known, this must be how the Big People must love each other. This ride on a raging sea-storm must be how love manifests itself for them, and what would he know of it, coming as he is from a land where there are no seas, let alone any storms.

The silence that eventually ensues is like an explosion wave, and he stands with his eyes squeezed shut and his hands clamped over his mouth. He would not be too surprised at all if the centuries-old walls, and archways, and pillars, and delicate stained-glass window panes of the white palace were to come crumbling, and crashing, and tinkling down around him. 

Still, Pippin is planted in the doorway to his room, for he has as though grown roots into the floor. With his soles, he acutely feels the silken homeliness of the wood beneath his heels, the slight elevation of the threshold under the arc of his feet, and the impenetrable hardness of the polished granite against his toes. He belongs with the cosiness of the wood, with safe, warm, familiar things – what is he doing in this place, in this big dark world of high lords and tall towers of stone? There is so much space, but no place for a little hobbit – only for the Big People with their Big Passions.

It is a very long time before he can relax his posture and open his eyes. They sleep now, will sleep for several more hours – enough time for the Steward’s esquire to get himself together.

Pippin forces himself to smile.

His face itches from the tears that had trickled down his cheeks, and his throat is sore and tight, but he feels a little better already.

Certainly, it is no pleasure to learn Faramir is not indifferent towards males in general, only to Pippin in particular. Yet on the other hand, surely it could have been worse. If Faramir had brought a stable hand to his bed, or a city guard in training – _that_ would have hurt, oh that would have hurt. But truly, who would have picked a Peregrin Took over an Aragorn? Who would have even thought to compare...? 

Aragorn is a good man, and now he is a lucky man also. And it is rightly so: who, after all, could be more worthy of his master than a king of kings? Is it not only fitting, a proper testimony of his lord’s worth that this man, for whom the noblest and most sublime of women have desired to give their lives, should have chosen Faramir? That for Faramir, he should go against convention, against all laws, explicit and not, of what is the done thing in good society?

It honestly is not so bad, he tells himself, grasping onto his hobbit optimism with white-knuckled determination. And within the next half-hour or so, it even starts to seem to him that he is able to feel genuine gladness, may as it be with a cutting edge. He has always wanted one thing only, at the bottom of all his foolish desires: for his lord to be happy. And now Faramir is – and will be, for Aragorn is not one to—

Just then, when he has almost made peace with himself, he not so much hears as rather senses with his marrow a disquiet in his lord’s chamber. The activity is careful, hushed, and hurried – then out of nowhere Aragorn passes him, so very close. Although Pippin can feel the air disturbed by the King’s movement gently brush him on the face, there is no sound at all. The heir of Elendil has all his gear back on properly, and once again is moving with his usual brisk lightness, barely seen and altogether not heard – he has, apparently, recovered his sobriety. And now that he is no longer under the bad influence of the thick spirits, he is leaving.

Just like that.

He does not notice Pippin. Apparently the King of Gondor is too preoccupied to look around, and it does not require much light for Pippin to see this, for the bewilderment radiates from him almost visibly, like heat from a cindering log.

For a second, before Aragorn discreetly pushes the door open and slips out, into the peaceful darkness of a summer night, Pippin contemplates making his presence known. A polite cough-cough would do, maybe even a _Good evening, sire_. And then, _Just where, Balrogs skin you for belts, do you think you are going?! You get back in there, you stealthy coward, you ungrateful—_

He realises something then. As the gilded panel quietly clicks back into place and his solitude is resumed, he knows that whether the older man goes now or later is altogether immaterial, for everything is already decided. He may not be all that versed in the matters of romance, but he knows for a fact that happy endings do not have such beginnings.


	15. Chapter 15

Pippin passes the rest of the night with his hands folded lifelessly in his lap, perched stiff and straight on the edge of his low bed – the bed made for him by Faramir’s personal order, perfect in height and length. Everything in the room is made to measure, and a grown Man entering this place might think he has stepped into a child’s playroom. But tonight Peregrin Took seems terribly old to himself, too old for the world. He had spent many of the past hours waiting, but now in a sense he is doing the opposite of waiting. He is wishing, with all the power of his little heart, that morning would never come, that Faramir would never have to wake to an empty pillow beside him.

He wishes that time were something tangible, something that he could throw himself at and struggle with so as to stave off its progress. Something that he could beat at with his little fists, something he could kick and bite at. But if that were so, he is sure that time would manifest itself in the form of a giant spider-web, sticky and thick. It would absorb his every strike with springy indifference, and struggling against it would do nothing but drain away his strength, his desire to fight. He has never felt this small, this insignificant, has never known such hopeless, lightless, all-encompassing dread of the daybreak – not during his nights in Orcish captivity, not even on the eve of the siege of Minas Tirith. Great forces have been set in motion, and they tug him along like a piece of debris caught in the current of a mighty river, and he is helpless to change anything at all, in the flow of the river or in his own passage within it. 

He wishes he could trade places with Faramir, become Faramir, so that he could live through all the misery that must unfold, so that Faramir would not have to. He wishes, above all, that he could be Aragorn, so that he would return.

For Aragorn will not return, as he is not the kind of man to change his mind.

Pippin does not try to tell himself that he might have misinterpreted what he saw. He is, in fact, so sure of his interpretation, that for a time even his outrage has deflated, as outrage demands that things be changed in the name of justice, and he knows that nothing is going to change. He only keeps on turning what has happened over and over in his mind, like spinning yarn into a ball, with each turn adding on yet another loop of implications. 

There is no question here as to why the King has not stayed – he is the King, if he had wished to stay, he would have done so. And this act of not staying, this simple action of walking out of the Steward’s rooms, of physically removing himself from the situation – this in itself speaks clearer than words, and what is funny is that it also hurts more than words.

This is the worst of it – that Aragorn did not actually have to do this. There is nothing that could have immediately deterred him had he wished to remain where he was, even if only to linger, to wait for Faramir to awaken – so they could speak, so they could at least acknowledge what has been done. It lends permanence to his decision, this going without having to, this cutting off, disengaging himself at the earliest possible occasion.

It is this callousness that denies comprehension. That he would allow himself to get drunk out of hand when alone with one he desired, that he would resort to vulgar seduction, that he would think that Faramir was playing, flirting with him, that he would manhandle Faramir in bed, in retrospect all of this Pippin can believe – much less so the unapologetic exit that has followed. How does he not understand, this man who is supposed to be endowed with wisdom above all, that in so going he has not only withheld his love, that he has also withdrawn his respect – that he has taken away Faramir’s dignity? 

Tried him on like a pair of shoes that he would cast aside if they did not fit.

Slowly, the dark shapes of furniture begin to acquire definition, and the cool bluish grey of approaching dawn creeps in through the gaps in the curtains, as gradual as it is inexorable – and the hobbit stands up. He has a work to do, the usual preparations for his lord’s awakening, as though this were any normal day.

He had put the water from yesterday’s unused bath back in the big-bellied cauldron, which he now sets to boil again. He checks that there are enough fresh towels, folded neatly, that the large oval mirror is clean, that no black hairs are offending the whiteness of the basins or the creaminess of the floor. He fishes in the cabinet for the jar of soothing salve, brings it to the front of the shelf and leaves the cabinet door a little ajar, so that Faramir’s eyes will be bound to fall upon it without the arrangement looking like it had been made with a purpose. He lays out the choice of clothes, irons the several items that have wrinkled up while in the closet, ponders for a moment what to do about the boots which he polishes every morning, but which were not left for him outside his master’s bedroom as is the custom between them. Well, Faramir will have to make do with yesterday’s polish, for Pippin will not go into that room, will not by so going imply that he has seen the strange disarray of garments and bed-things. He can, in fact, see from here, for Aragorn has not risked to make a creak with the hinges, or has simply not bothered, and the Steward’s chamber stands wide open. In the soft powdery shadow he can make out Faramir’s slumbering shape, resting unencumbered, not exactly on his front, not quite on his side – one arm slung up, hiding his profile from view, hair a mess of dark waves across the pillow. The blanket, which is more on the floor than it is on the bed, covers most of his lower half, leaving out one white foot and part of his left thigh. 

He looks so peaceful and rested, and his is not the sleep of a troubled man. Gently, Pippin pulls the door to.

In the hallway he puts in place the things that were dropped and brushes up the things that were broken, sets every book where it should be. When this is done, he heads to the kitchens to oversee the preparation of a heartsome breakfast and have a good argument with the maids. 

By the time he brings back the overloaded tray, he can hear Faramir splashing in the washing room. The hobbit knows better than to offer his assistance on a morning like this. 

He bows his head, purses his lips and searches with his eyes the starched linen of the tablecloth, as though it can offer him some last-minute solution as to how to set everything aright. He has awoken, he knows. How did it happen so fast, how could have morning come already? Pippin’s hands are trembling faintly as he lays out the silver cutlery and puts down the full plates, and he clenches his teeth and reprimands himself. Nothing, not a single nerve ought to move in his face when his lord emerges – or thereafter. As far as he is concerned, nothing has happened – because his lord had given him leave, and he was not here to witness anything happen.

He is satisfied with the look of the table, hardly any place left on it for all the dishes and cups. He has brought a good selection for Faramir, even though Faramir has never been picky with food and not once has expressed a wish that something different had been served. But this morning Pippin had descended into the kitchens and declared with aplomb that it was high time they smartened up the breakfast routine for his master, and fed him like the noble lord that he was. For this he had had to endure some rather scathing looks from the kitchen ladies: no doubt they disbelieved him and thought he wants the extra for himself. Although any Hobbit worth his salt would know not to antagonise the people who manage his food, today Pippin could not care less, let them think what they would, he is more concerned with offering his liege every comfort he can get his hands on. And in case Faramir should have no appetite and rather be suffering from the aftermath of the overindulgence in alcohol, Pippin has also brought along a variety of remedies. There is a full carafe of cool spring water for starters, there is apple cider and rose wine, although Faramir does not usually take drink with the morning meal – then there is this local fermented-milk beverage that is fabled to be a magical cure. Naturally, there is also strong hot tea with a quartered lemon waiting on a saucer beside the pot – just in case Faramir should chance to be in the mood for some. 

Pippin takes a step back, closes his eyes for a moment, and slowly breathes out. 

Many, it seems now that very, very many years ago, he had taken part in a village play to celebrate the end of harvest. Nothing fancy, pure amusement, and as a little Hobbit-boy he had been given hardly two lines to say, but in his muscles he still recalls the sudden seizure of blind panic that had gripped him backstage. There had been something almost supernaturally eerie about how the play had taken possession of his body, for although the thought ‘I cannot do this’ kept rushing through his blank mind, at the same time he knew with undoubting certainty that when his moment came he would step out onto the creaky boards from behind the patchwork curtain, and play out his role, step after step, like one of Gandalf’s curious clockwork toys – without any control over his limbs or features. When the last minute before his entrance had begun ticking off, he had even had a sudden last leap of hope for salvation, for being taken out of this situation by some decisive and unforeseeable act of the powers above, for being absolved from performing his duty. 

Not that he had been, in all seriousness, afraid to become the centre of attention of a group of already jolly-spirited Hobbits, and not that his mustard-yellow costume of a turnip, with some twigs on top to represent the shaw, had caused him any particular embarrassment or discomfort. Not that he had genuinely wished to withdraw his involvement from the event. It was merely that then, for the first time, he had consciously sensed himself as a tiny gear-wheel element in a complex social machinery, part of a ritual, part of something thought-up, artificial and symbolic yet somehow all the more important for it. 

And then, as he had drawn back the heavy fabric and walked forward, showing all of himself to the eager crowd, a strange calm had settled over him, white and cool, like morning mist, like that eternal moment when you go very, very high on the swing, and then leap off, and you are suspended in the air, and you know that you will fall, and likely crash, but you do not care, because for that one moment, you are soaring.

Pippin breathes out again, and surveys his work once more, purses his lips and moves the teapot a little, to make sure it does not get in the way. There is not much he can do, but this much he can do well, and he will do what is in his power to do to keep things going, to keep things proper.

And at last the door to the lord’s private rooms is opened, and the Steward of Gondor steps forth.


	16. Chapter 16

As Faramir pauses in the doorway, he looks to Pippin exceptionally pale. Pale and self-possessed as one about to traverse a mountain gorge over a flimsy rope bridge – but there is an unconcealable shadow of confusion in his keen eyes. It is as though he heard his name called out in the busy market by a familiar voice, and has turned round, searching the faces with his eyes, but there is no one. For half a second he seems to Pippin as though utterly lost, as though this is not his home and he has no notion of what he is doing here, as though he is a stranger in his own body. And indeed he looks a little out of place, so straight he stands, so focussed and grave – not to mention his getup.

Too late Pippin realises he should have thought of this. Faramir is wearing the only high-collar tunic he owns, a long woollen piece, heavy and dark. Its itchy bulk is far too warm even for some autumn days, let alone a bright summer morning like this, but the man’s neck must be in no state to be exhibited to the eyes of the public. 

Only because he is watching so intently the Hobbit notes that Faramir flicks a quick glance around the room, and his gaze dulls when he sees there is no one save for his esquire.

The man lifts his chin a notch and blinks, just once. He had hoped, apparently he had still hoped – and it hurts, but he has long since learned to master his hurts. He greets Pippin and walks to the table as though nothing, absolutely nothing is amiss. 

Pippin does not flatter himself thinking it is for his benefit that Faramir does not let his disappointment show. This is an internal battle, the audience is not essential. And he is sure that even when alone with himself, Faramir would not go wallowing in self-pity, cursing his bitter fate or rueing his foolish choices – wherever it is he prefers to ascribe blame in a moment like this. 

Pippin had put a cushion on the seat, but a shadow of a wince still jerks over Faramir’s face as he sits down, more abruptly, perhaps, than he should have. And if there had been left any ambiguity as to how precisely the events of last night might have imprinted themselves upon his master’s memory what with the amount of wine he had in his blood, little hope now remains that any degree of detail may have thankfully been lost. Especially so the detail that had ensued from the point where he had dropped all his clothes to the floor. What need is there for memory, when Aragorn’s loving had left a trail like an oliphaunt crashing through the undergrowth.

Pippin busies himself picking an imaginary thread off his black livery: he did not notice his lord flinch, he has paid no mind to the high-collared shirt, and he has nothing to do with a pillow mysteriously finding its way to the Steward’s chair today of all days.

He senses Faramir is in no mood for casual conversation – and tries not to hover around other than to pour the drinks. He would have altogether excused himself, but is afraid doing so would be too unusual and might attract Faramir’s attention. The pillow was already a risky step, he cannot afford any more giveaways.

He, like no one, understands the vital imperativeness of letting the man hold on to this bogus semblance of normality no matter what.

Faramir butters a toast, studies it, puts it down on the plate and does not touch it again. 

He drinks some tea though, and eventually does eat a toast, this one plain, without butter.

Suddenly, “You moved the chair away,” the man observes, vacantly.

“My lord?” Pippin says politely, but inside him a thousand wings are fluttering madly. Maybe he should not have moved it? Maybe it is too obvious this way? But he did not want it to be gaping with emptiness flop opposite his lord, pushing the other’s absence in his face.

“The chair,” Faramir repeats, and nods towards the piece in question modestly standing in the corner. 

Pippin inclines his head. “I did, yes, I...” he takes a deep breath. He does not know what else to reply to dismiss the matter, he cannot quite think, and he hates himself for saying the only thing that comes to mind. “I did not reckon you’d be expecting company. If you wish, I’ll move it right back.”

Faramir waves his hand. “Nay, I’m not expecting anyone,” he says with indifference.

There is a crease between his brows and a hardness in his eyes – and suddenly Pippin sees how he will age. In this moment more than ever before Pippin recognises in the man traces of his late father and brother, sees where the lines of sternness and sorrow might chart his face, where cold resignation might replace the gentle kindness in the corners of his lips and eyes. 

With all his being he desires to prevent this from coming to pass, and if he knew some magical spell that would do the trick, some forbidden sorcery, surely he would have used it were it even to cost him an eye, and a limb, and the eternal damnation of his spirit, for he is certain he would throw himself in the way of such fate unfurling, if only it were up to him. Which it is not. It is not even up to him to fill Faramir in on the circumstances of Aragorn’s departure, to clarify this much for his lord – he cannot rob the man of the relative consolation that leastwise no one else knows.

The breakfast is taking forever, although Faramir is hardly eating. But he will not rise from the table either, and Pippin can sense the alternating waves of tension and restlessness wash over the man. The hobbit can well imagine what Faramir would be thinking being who he is, a man of Gondor, a man of honour, a man of great humility. Two trails of thought, interwoven together by doubt: one rigid and spiky, accusatory, taunting, jeering; the other smooth and supple, and it would twist around the first, and sheathe its biting spikes, and turn them into harmless, soothing question marks. Why jump to conclusions? His love was so earnest, he spoke many wonderful things. The wine may have lent a hand in untying his tongue, but would have he said it had it been absent from his heart? He is a man noble and true, how could he possibly utter a lie? What if he has left before dawn for fear of being seen by the servants? What if he had not at all wished to go? What if he only means to allow you due space and respect? 

But the first thought is surely no newcomer to Faramir’s head, and Pippin expects that it must have had quite a few years of rather successful practice – and as his master cradles the teacup in his hands, and frowns over it, Pippin can see the first thought bristle, blowing the questions into exclamation marks. Go ahead, delude yourself a bit longer, haven’t you always been an expert in that department! Do go on, build yourself a castle in the clouds – so well that will serve you! He had put such trust in you, relied on you – and you…! He may not have been himself – but _you_! You have always wanted this. How can he not be ashamed to look upon you now – one so eager to unman himself, happy to be treated like a whore? Though not even every whore would agree to service a man like you have.

Faramir frowns harder, the tendons in his cheeks pulling taut. His shoulders heave an unreleased sigh, and he leans forth, placing his elbows on the table.

As he looks upon this man, this man who is so tall and strong, whose shoulders bulge with muscle as he hunches over his teacup, all his brawn and agility and staunch will of no use to him at all, Pippin thinks, isn’t it strange, how easy it is for Men to crush one another with what is in essence a consensual act of love. How is it that what can make so much joy in the process, afterwards brings only grief. 

When he had lived among his own kind, it had never once occurred to him that certain roles in these sorts of exchanges could be painfully demeaning while others not so much – one just went with whatever one felt most inclined towards, and that was that. But even he is by far not immune, for whenever he had thought of himself in bed with Faramir, it was without question who would be doing what, because… – because Faramir is a lord, his lord, and it is unacceptable, it is simply unthinkable to… And it is obvious to him that if only it had been reversed, had it been Faramir who had topped, put his male strength between the invitingly spread legs, got his manhood kissed and sucked – oh, if only it were so, it would not have been nearly as bad. Or at least, it would not have been as unequivocally degrading personally for Faramir, which is more or less the only thing Pippin cares about at the moment. 

When at last Faramir rises, his face is set and stiff, but his gaze direct and devoid of any emotion. He may be vulnerable in his own way, but he will deal with his burden without giving anyone occasion to speculate that he is dealing with anything at all. 

Pippin lingers by the table, uninformed about his master’s plans, and thus unsure whether it is expected that he will follow, or if he is given leave to clear the dishes. But in the doorway Faramir stops, and, turning his head halfway back without quite looking at Pippin, says, “Would you fetch my rod for me, Master Peregrin?”

“Your rod, sir?”

“Aye, the Steward’s rod – you know, ivory, with golden knobs.”

“Ah, yes!” Pippin confirms, instantly flustered. They had not taken the dratted thing out of its case for a long, long while, and he is not quite sure he can recall its exact whereabouts. “Right away, sir.”

As he hurries back to the hallway, the milk-coloured warder in his outstretched hands, he finds Faramir before the sculpture of the horse on its hinds. The man is contemplating it with his head tilted to the side, then reaches forth and with his open palm lifts a small sliver of snowy-white fabric hanging from one of the hooves. 

Pippin makes to say something, but only shuffles his feet.

“My cloak had caught on this when I was returning from supper,” Faramir explains, still looking into his hand. “You shall get rid of it for me, won’t you?”

“Certainly. I had never quite fancied the beast either, sir.”

“Nay – that is, the cloak.”

“Oh,” a stone drops into Pippin’s stomach. “Of course, yes, if your lordship so wishes – though I could have it mended for you, if you would… ’Tis such a pretty thing, after all.”

Faramir looks at him.

“So it is,” he agrees. “But do you think there truly is much use in that? Not everything lends itself well to mending, Peregrin – pretty though it may be.”

Pippin sighs and hands him the sceptre, and silently treads after him when the man turns on his heel to go. But at the exit from his quarters, Faramir halts once more, and glances over his shoulder.

“Peregrin,” he says, “Wait for me here. I…” he looks away and shakes his head, so tired already at such an early hour. “Just wait here.” 

And only when the door closes behind him, and Pippin stares blankly at the wooden pane, his unrested mind makes the connection, and the hobbit gasps aloud.

He knows his master’s plan after all, for to take the rod with him today the Steward can have one reason only – to resign.


	17. Chapter 17

The next two hours pass in avoidance of the bedroom. Pippin knows he ought to go in and – how to put this? – to see to the bed. But he cannot quite bring himself to enter… that place, to inhale that air which his master’s one-night lover had breathed, to see the dried-up testimony of their passion on the sheets. He well knows he will wash these sheets himself, scrub every inch with bare hands in water so hot his skin will go red and raw, pluck all the dark hairs, one by one, from between the fabric strands with his fingernails, and rinse the load with aromatic essences, over and again. Those loose-tongued laundry maids will not get to enjoy hazarding idle guesses as to how a man whose wife is known not to have been in town for a number of seasons now, could manage to get his linens in such a state.

The matter has acquired a near cosmic, universal import. Their fate, his lord’s fate, his lord’s happiness, the ability of life to return to its regular, non-tragic course – everything depends on the success of The Bed Quest. Incidentally, it has become unimaginably difficult, immovable as a mountain of lead, so that he cannot even begin to do something about it. He understands he should at least strip the mattress and put fresh linens on, and take the used ones someplace else to deal with them later. But here his own logic comes to stand in the way: what if Faramir spots it? Pippin had changed the bedclothes only the day before, and it would not be standard procedure to do it again so soon. He knows his lord is a man gifted with exceptional perspicacity, even in the times of extreme stress, and when he settles for sleep tonight, he may observe that everything is fresh and starched all over again, and see the tie-in, and know that his supposedly unaware esquire is not as fortunately ignorant. Especially that Pippin has already floundered with the chair, and the cushion – no, he cannot risk being discovered to know, being even suspected to know.

Besides, deep down he yet dares hope that his current actions will prove to be immaterial. He hopes that when Faramir finds Aragorn today, Aragorn will smile at him, and no sooner than they are alone, he will take him by the hand and all will be well. And maybe towards nightfall they will return, together.

In such turn of events it would not make too much sense to do anything at all beyond straightening out the covers. The Queen is not due back in the City for another week, and if Aragorn will spend each of those nights here – and surely he would, for how could he keep himself off Faramir – well, they would have to go through a frightful amount of pillow cases and the rest of it if Pippin were to replace everything every time.

All his senses tell him that this is not what is going to happen. But in any case, it is none of his concern. His job is to tidy up and put things in order, not to rationalise whether or not he should be putting things in order.

He well understands this task comes with the territory. He had wanted to be Faramir’s one and only personal attendant, and this is what he is – which means he does not have the luxury to delegate a chore he would rather not do.

He has lived in such close proximity to his lord for such a long time that he harbours no illusions as to Faramir being an incorporeal spirit of pure light and shine. For one thing, now and again – and in the recent weeks quite often, for that matter – when making the bed in the morning, he would come across fresh evidence that his lord had been visited by a rather sweetly indecent dream. But to Pippin, the vision that would immediately follow such a discovery, that of Faramir pressing himself into the mattress, sighing with pleasure in his sleep – that vision is pure delight. And even the less readily romanticisable aspects of a man’s daily life that it falls to a body servant to witness had never lifted the veil of love for him, not for a fraction of a second, for nothing that comes of Faramir could ever repel him. And if Faramir would only wish it of him, there is not a way in which he would not be ecstatic to pleasure the man, not a single favour he would refuse him.

So it throws him, that he should find himself so intensely put off by the prospect of performing such a simple, mundane task.

But then again, this here is not about Faramir, nor about the due privacy that Faramir’s personal goings-on should be allowed. To think of it, had his lord had a wholesome marriage, it would have naturally fallen to Pippin to deal with the aftermath of his and Lady Éowyn’s lovemaking, and sometimes even the markings of her monthly blood – arguably a matter even more private. Pippin turns this idea around in his mind, and can find nothing to wince at. Yet what happened in the bed last night – it makes his skin crawl, for it is dirty, dirty in a way far worse than even the soiled beddings the Hobbit has handled at the Wards. Ugly is what it is, ugly and disgusting, as though instead of sweat and male seed the linen is soaked with literal selfishness and deceit that will rise and spread like fumes of the plague should Pippin dare disturb the mounded blanket or dislodged sheet.

And in Faramir’s own bed, no less! The most intimate, sacred place of all of his household. To go and do this… Truly, the only way to cleanse it is set the whole thing alight and let it burn to cinders. He just cannot get his head around how…

Pippin sighs. He does realise it should not be this unmanageable, just get on with it already, do your job for goodness’ sake – but agonising over it is by far preferable to agonising over Faramir’s upcoming resignation.

O, he will do it, he will get it done – just not quite right away, not until the ware is taken back to the kitchens, the non-existent crumbs from the uneaten meal brushed off the table, and the table-cloth adjusted to perfect symmetry. Not until the garments Faramir has chosen not to wear are neatly folded and put back in the drawers, and the floor in the bathroom wiped dry. Not until the rolled up and sealed documents brought for his lord’s perusal are sorted and stacked on the desk, and wood put in the hearth just in case it is be cold tonight. Not until everything looks perfect, as though nothing has been shattered and life goes on. Not until –

Not until Faramir is back – because he is.

The man walks straight to the accursed bedroom, too – and Pippin is so ashamed he can hardly breathe. Lowly craven of a hobbit, now his lord will get his nose rubbed into yet another reminder, that pillaged mess of a battlefield where he had so blindly, so rapturously surrendered all of himself. Where he had wanted to make love and ended up getting completely –

“Master Peregrin, would you come here a minute?” Faramir calls drily.

Pippin rushes in, queasy with guilt. He opens his mouth to mumble apologies, to fully embrace his fault – but then it registers with him that Faramir is not reproaching him for the negligence of his duties. Faramir, in fact, does not seem to care, as he flings his old faded saddle bag right atop the blanket.

“Will you give me a hand packing?” he says briskly, not even glancing at his esquire and already rummaging through a full drawer, instantly undoing an hour’s worth of meticulous folding and stacking that Pippin so prizes himself on. “I… I need to take some things along, I’ll be gone for a time,” Faramir murmurs a little dazedly, as suddenly he forsakes his search and, slowly, straightens up only to look blankly in front of himself. He is clearly quite overwhelmed, and even the rather straightforward undertaking of figuring out what to put in his bag apparently eludes his grasp. He swallows, frowns.

“Will your lordship be heading to Emyn Arnen?” Pippin offers with courtly politeness, standing up nice and tall and folding his hands behind his back.

“Yes,” Faramir agrees absently. Then, after a moment’s hesitation, he adds a little firmer, “yes, I suppose so. That is where I shall go.”

“Well, in that case you can go rather light,” Pippin proposes with the seriousness of an intellectual discussion. Just keep talking. He has learned this at the Wards, just keep talking to them, it hurts less so. “You won’t be needing much for the trip itself, I imagine not, and it does not look likely to rain anytime today – and then I reckon your lordship would have most everything for the daily matters at home, clothes and such?”

Faramir nods, and seems calmer now. “Yes,” he says quietly, “that I do.”

And so they pack, and Pippin chatters and chatters to maintain the distracting background – but it is now that he more than ever burns to open his heart to the man he so desperately loves.

He knows it will be quite useless, now of all times – and yet the urge is so strong he at times has to bite down on the inside of his cheek to keep the words from popping out. May as it be against his nature to quash himself like so, the blaze of his passion has not blinded his reason, and he understands his love cannot replace the absence of Aragorn’s. His confession, such as he could make it, would be yet another burden to Faramir, yet another absurd misfortune to manage. He knows it will be unkind, too, to try and offer such consolation, much as it would be unkind to offer a thirsty man a cupful of oil – in many ways so similar to what he yearns for, but in truth only a joke, a lopsided reflection of his true desire.

And what would Pippin say? You matter to me? I care for you? I think about you without end? You are the best man I’ve ever known and I wish to make you happy? I would do anything for you, treasure every moment with you and never hurt you? He would rather swallow his tongue altogether than give these flat, trite, adolescent lines to his lord. He comes from a world where the things that truly matter are hardly ever spoken of directly, if at all, for such things exist in a context of their own and go far beyond the small everyday words used to refer to small everyday matters. A whole different language should be used to speak of love, he thinks, a language graceful and transparent, pure and unsoiled, a language that is not earthbound – and if he knew the High Tongue, maybe then he would have dared say something. But he does not know it.

Instead, he tries to work up the courage to ask for permission to breach their unspoken tradition and come along. Faramir is so preoccupied now, the hobbit is quite sure he would grant it without stopping to think. What does it matter to him if Pippin goes or not – but to Pippin it matters!

He does not ask, he cannot. And Faramir does not invite him: again, Faramir has a little too much on his mind as is.

And just like that, bag in hand, the Man is gone. Out the door, and out of Minas Tirith. Without a word of explanation. Pippin does not accompany him to the stables, does not even walk him to the main entrance – he can tell his lord can hardly wait to be alone.

The Hobbit stands numb, dumb, as though he has just been whacked across the head with a sack of potatoes. His ears are ringing with silence, with the deserted emptiness of his master’s sunlight-flooded chamber, where so much life had recently happened, and where only the dust is settling now. His tendons and muscles go limp, his eyes go heavy and purposeless, and his unseeing gaze sinks upon his own feet. It is done – whatever it is that happened, it is done and over.

It is then the spot of colour on the floor catches his eye. Half-covered by a fold of the bed-sheet there it is – a small, little more than an ounce, bottle of deep violet glass. The cork must have popped out when it fell, and it has dripped some glistening oily liquid onto the stone.

Instantly, he wakes up. For he knows why it is here and with what purpose it had been brought along, for what purpose it had, almost, been used. Through what is most akin to a hound’s sense of smell he knows it is an alien object in his lord’s quarters, brought here not in his lord’s hands, brought here not by his lord’s design, remaining here without his lord’s knowledge. A conceited little attestation of Faramir’s one moment of weakness.

Pippin feels himself go pale with rage.

The bastard, the son of a trollop had planned this.

Well, perhaps not necessarily ‘planned’, but certainly he had kept the possibility in mind coming prepared to an ‘innocent’ private dinner with his Steward.

Never, he thinks, has he felt such unconditional, white-hot hatred. His hands curl with the desire to pull the fire-poker from the grate and go smash it on Aragorn’s skull – or, better still, between his legs. And then lodge it up his royal arse, so that he would know, what it feels like to be had.

His teeth clenched to the point of desensitisation, the Hobbit bends down and scoops the bottle up into his pocket. There may not be much he can do about this, about anything – but he knows now that he will not forget, and he will not let it go.


	18. Chapter 18

Later, Pippin will not be able to recall much of the immediate aftermath of Faramir's abrupt departure. 

He goes about as one in the wake of a great blast, disoriented and deafened. His duties, bless them, carry the Hobbit through the rest of the day as a puppet on strings. His mind need not be present, simply go through the motions, how blissfully mechanical. Walk, talk, knock on door, bow, carry, walk, turn. If only every problem could be distilled to a basic action sequence. 

Along the way it does register with him – in fact, he cannot help but learn – that the King has been out since before dawn. 

Which would of course explain why Faramir has brought back his Steward's sceptre, why his resignation had not been accepted. 

The King, it turns out, had gone on a hunt. 

Pippin can just see Faramir searching for the man high and low in the corridors and courtyards, up and down the marble-paved streets, with an urgency he cannot afford to show, with that hollow determined look on his pale face. But their dear majesty is not even in the city, he is out frolicking in the woods. Pippin is surprised how much it hurts, this cherry on the top, yet another unspoken, unnecessary insult to Faramir. 

What a productive day for their monarch, Pippin thinks. Ruin a man's life by breakfast, slay some wild creature for lunch, probably condemn a petty thief or two to death for afternoon tea. Isn't Aragorn a lovely chap, aren't they all so lucky to have him. 

The hour is turning towards dusk when Pippin finally marches himself into his master's quarters. Enough is enough, it is time. 

As the water on the hearth is whispering, beginning to simmer, he all but rips the incriminating linens off the Steward's bed. Blast it, he will boil, bleach with heat, dissolve, deconstruct, pour down the drain all evidence, every horrid memory. 

It proves harder than he had thought. Messier, too. 

The sheets are like colossal backstage curtains, like enormous battleship sails. They billow with trapped air as he tries to submerge them into the pot-bellied cauldron that now suddenly seems so small. With gurgling, sucking noises, it keeps overflowing into the fire, hitting him full in the face with gusts of angry steam. 

With the back of his soot-smeared arm, Pippin wipes his plastered curls out of his eyes, and swears with grim relish. 

Supper comes and passes. 

It is rude to not show up. When Faramir is away, it is the unwritten tradition that the Hobbit takes his meal in the main hall with the rest of Aragorn's court. For old times' sake. It is a bit of a joke really, most of them still see him as part exotic guest, part friend, part paid help, part complimentary jester. 

He is no mind to entertain anyone tonight. Bugger it all. Let him be rude, let them care. They can take their peaches, and their honeyed breads, and their cured meats with their soft cheeses, and shove it all up a place of their own choosing. 

Pippin blows his cheeks. This is not working. Even if he does manage the washing part, how will he transport the scalding load to the bathroom to rinse without burning himself to blisters or leaving a flood of dirty water in his wake? How do the laundry maids do it? Maybe he should have thought this through first. 

He squares his shoulders. This is his personal battle, what little he can do for his Faramir, and the sheet is the enemy. 

With the bent end of the fire-poker, through tugs, and jerks, and stinging splashes, he eventually drags all of it over the rim of the cauldron. In a hot slop, the tangle of fabric spills out and piles at his feet like a half-cooked sea monster. He will tear it up and burn it, just get rid of it. Who cares. Aragorn can afford to dish out on new linens for the palace. 

First though, Pippin will have to let it dry out somehow, nothing this wet will take fire in a million Elf-years... Without warning, he is overcome with an all-encompassing sense of defeat. His eyes close as he feels a vague swaying sensation, and remembers it must be his exhaustion, when was the last time he slept...? 

A tentative knock on the door, and Pippin blinks groggily back to the reality devoid of comfort. 

What now? By the sound he can tell it's coming low on the door, not a man's height. 

Maybe if he ignores it, it will go away. Not that this strategy often works – nor does it tonight, because the knock returns, nervous but insistent. 

A pre-adolescent boy stares in alarm when Pippin opens. 

Cropped hair with a thick fringe, short black tunic, those ridiculous soft shoes with the pointy toes. Aragorn's page. Belerand? Belegor? Whatever. 

"Lord Steward is not here," Pippin says with not so much as a token attempt at hospitality. 

The young visitor does not move, clearly unsurprised by this information. 

Pippin gives him an unimpressed look. "What?" 

"Mas... master Peregrin, you look like a balrog's apprentice!" the Bele-something page blurts out. "Are you – burning things?" 

Pippin shrugs. If only he gives Aragorn's errand boys enough cheek, maybe some of it will rub off on Aragorn himself. 

"I have a lot of burning to do, mind," he informs the lad, "if you're struggling to occupy yourself, I’m happy to put your energies to good use." 

The page looks like he thinks Pippin might just mean it, and takes a small step back to be safe. 

"Actually... I came... my lord the King Elessar Telcontar has sent me." 

Did he now, who would have thought. Pippin sighs. They only have one king, thank the Valar. Why does everyone need to specify with all this pomp. As if folk would get confused otherwise, wait, which king again? 

"And? What?" the Hobbit prompts tiredly. 

The boy glances about, confused as to how he has caused Pippin apparent offence. 

"My lord asks... I mean, he said for you to come. To see him. He said, now." He looks at Pippin doubtfully and adds, "You might want to... do something," he gesticulates around his face in reference to a grooming activity of some sort. 

"Balrog's apprentice, yes, I get it. Give me a minute." 

To put out the flames, Pippin drags the leaking, oozing heap of linen square into the hearth. He knows later he will regret this, it will be a pain to get the fire going again out of the soggy mess – but there is too much satisfaction in the moment. 

He stands over the charred pile, the rising steam like unto the spirit leaving a dead body. He shuts his eyes, exhales, makes a conscious effort to uncurl his fists. 

On behalf of his lord, he must have pride. On behalf of his lord, he cannot let Aragorn see him – let anyone see him – represent the Steward of Gondor in anything less than a most dignified manner. He exhales once more, slowly, and turns for a quick change of clothes. His tunic is black and does not show the soot all that much – but he will not stand before the King unclean. 

Silently, they tread the corridor. It is not very far, and Pippin could have very well found the way himself. He sees no need for such formality, a personal escort, no less! 

Only as they enter the dark royal quarters with their high vaulted ceilings and epic tapestries with gold and silver thread, does his feisty defiance retreat to give some way to unease. He refuses to be intimidated, he will not give that ground to Aragorn, but he knows he might have to play a game, and not from a position of advantage. 

Worse still, inside him sits the little Pippin from before, from another life, who has such undoubting faith in Aragorn, who is so certain this is all a just a ridiculous, silly misunderstanding. They are going to set it straight right away, they will all be laughing before long. 

He has a sudden vision then, a product of his over-wrought mind no doubt. The Hall of Feasts filled with the gentry and common folk alike. The light falling through the tall narrow windows with an ethereal glory. And Pippin in the centre of the crowd for some reason, looking up the stairs to the high throne, at the King in all his majesty and beside him the Steward, and Aragorn decrees they had all better rejoice for him and Faramir. There are glimpses, as if another vision showing through, of something far away and very old, but glorious too, even more so, strange, ancient fashions, a hall so much larger still. This too is replaced, as if a page turned, by a fireside scene, Aragorn in a deep armchair, with Faramir perched intimately on his lap. His arms are around the older man's neck in a playful, still tentative but already familiar embrace. Both lords are looking over at him in deep, unspoken bliss, glowing with silent knowledge of their good fortune. 

Surely he can set things right somehow. This feels so proper, so true, so exactly how it should be. 

The lingering, unreasonable hope imbues him with utter misery, with a sick feeling in his stomach, and such stark, profound loneliness. Where are the wizards, and the Ents, and tall reliable Men, and trusted childhood companions when you need them. He pushes the hope as far out of his mind as it would go, and braces himself for an uphill battle, whatever form that shall take. 

Can he indeed help? He begins to wonder frantically as they see the strip of light from the ajar door to Aragorn's royal study. Was there ever anything he could have done, and if so, can he do it still? Is there anything yet that he can fix – and is there yet a new way he can fail Faramir? 

“Sire,” the page announces in a reverential murmur, “I’ve the Lord Steward's esquire for you.” 

Pippin hears no response, but there must be a nod or some such, for the page bows low and leaves, motioning for Pippin to step through the doorway. 

It is not until the main doors in the distance click shut behind the boy that Aragorn will look up and acknowledge Pippin's presence – and Pippin studies him in this gift of a moment. 

Such a familiar, normal setting – how many times has Pippin watched him like this, a masterful lord amid his work. A warrior-king content to put his weary sword to rest. A little tired, not untouched by time but utterly in control, full of the force of life in him, steady and strong. Ever since the final months of the War, he had inspired in Pippin a vague sense of reverence sprinkled with trepidation. A man he adored and could not quite wrap his mind around, a man he loved in an unreflecting, almost default manner. As he would love any hero, any valiant warrior, any clever and kind lord. And beneath all that, somewhere deep down, an old friend. 

So he looks upon him now, and Aragorn looks up to meet his gaze, the man’s thought still lingering elsewhere, caught in the moment, a little distracted, a little reluctant, but with a resignation, an acceptance that he must get on with what must be done. And Pippin is taken aback, for as a slap in the face he is awoken, and sees their king anew. 

For he looks at him in the knowledge that he is loved, and not like Pippin loves him. Not with that background unreflective devotion of a subject to a good king, but loved as a person, as a man, against all odds. Loved by someone who would see special, sacral meaning in every detail of his make, in the lines at the corners of his mouth, the angular curve of his brow, in the particular way his hair bends at the temples. By someone who would be endeared by this weary distracted look in his eyes, and his reserved aloof ways, his dry humour, the husky note in his strong voice. Someone to whom his very existence is a blessing, a meaning in life. Someone who is helpless before him. 

He sees, with such dumb, obvious clarity, how Aragorn can be loved. He sees, even, how Aragorn can be wanted, desired to the point of madness. He does not feel this desire himself, but in a strange way he can relate to it. He can feel at what strings it would pull in a man like Faramir, and knows that there is nothing to deter the mechanics of this attraction. Not for his heroics Faramir loves him, not for his noble ancestry, and not even for what Pippin can now see are of course astounding good looks. Such as only a well-seasoned warrior can possess, not your bland conventional beauty, but a sharp, rough, ruthless handsomeness that would punch straight in the gut. But no matter, he knows Faramir would love him for what is beneath all of this packaging. Something private, something that Pippin may have never even seen, that he has not been chosen to be shown. 

Aragorn frowns under his gaze – or is that Pippin imagining, is that the study being too full of shadow at this hour? 

“I did not see you at supper,” Aragorn observes, with something in his voice that could be as easily interpreted as concern, displeasure, or nothing at all. 

Pippin shrugs, such a casual exchange. “Oh, I had errands to run.” 

_Plucking your majesty’s loin-hairs out of my master’s linens, for example._

Aragorn looks at him, deeply. 

In return, Pippin studies the ceiling, squints one eye and scratches the back of his neck. He knows and feels no more than everyone has come to expect of the likes of him. He has been playing this role longer than he can now accurately count, he can play some more. He will not do Aragorn the favour of being the first to break the pretence. 

Aragorn sighs and sets to shuffling things on his desk, as though he is settling to do some more work. Very casual indeed, very natural. 

“Well, isn’t that a pity, one doesn’t have roasted boar every day,” he speaks with his eyes on the papers. “Now, would you care tell where the Steward has been off to? It has been relayed to me that he was seen riding off from the City earlier today, of which,” he pauses for a second, rolling his tongue in his cheek, drumming a single tap-tap on the table top with his fingers, “of which I have not been notified.” He looks squarely at Pippin then. “We have much scheduled for tomorrow. Unless you tell me otherwise, I shall be presuming that we are to expect his timely return.” 

So this is how it's going to go. 

We all collectively live under a rock and no one knows a bloody thing.

_To be continued..._


End file.
